


Human Nature

by delightful_fear



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1819, Alternate Universe - Never Met, Alternate Universe - Regency, Georgian England, Historical Johnlock, London, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 21:30:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 57,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10907847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delightful_fear/pseuds/delightful_fear
Summary: Rich and spoiled Sherlock makes a wager with his older brother that he can take a penniless man and make him presentable in high society.An AU set in Regency London (1819).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Природа и сущность человека (Human Nature)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11693307) by [PulpFiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PulpFiction/pseuds/PulpFiction)



John's stomach grumbled, and he shifted on the cold stone fence, wrapping his dark coat tighter against his body to ward off the damp chill. It didn't do much, the thin fabric not much of a defense against the elements. If he got the reward, the second thing he was going to do was get a better coat. The first thing would be getting a huge dinner, with rare roast beef and a lake of gravy.

Shaking his head, he pushed aside the obsessive thoughts of food and refocused on the building beyond. It had been an hour since the man he was following had gone inside. It was very dark out, the gaslight a little too far away to provide much illumination.

Feeling sleepy, John almost missed when the slim man slipped out of the house and along the back fence, carrying a lumpy sack over his back. Jumping up, John silently followed, keeping to the shadows in case the thief glanced back, but staying close enough to not lose him in the twisted alleyways.

The thief kept a fast pace, working his way east. John struggled to keep up, his cold muscles stiff from sitting outside so long. He pushed himself hard. He needed this. 

Groomed gardens and high fences gave way to crowded slums on their journey, and John moved even closer, looking for an opportunity to tackle the man. Being slightly shorter and thinner, he would have to surprise and immobilize him fast. He didn't have the strength for a long struggle.

Pulling out a length of rope, John wrapped it around his hand in readiness, adrenaline making his heart thump even faster. 

Now, now... he had to move now...

He tossed the loop over the man's head, quickly tightening it against his neck, and yanking him backwards hard. The man let out a yelp, letting go of the sack, leaving it to fall to the cobbled street with a metallic clang as his hands pulled at the rope blocking his airway. John held firm, his hands burning with the ropes fibers shifting against them, pulling the man down onto his back and pinning him.

They scuffled on the filthy street, John merciless as he kneed his groin, and managed to tie the rope around one of the man's wrists, and groping for the other one. He swore as the man surged against him, shifting his body weight off balance, and seconds later the thief was running down a nearby alley. 

Shaking his head, John was trembling with exhaustion as he stood up. His coat sleeve was almost torn off, his clothes wet and filthy from the fight, and he didn't have the energy to continue the chase. Opening the sack, he saw the gleam of a silver tray and felt grateful he had something to show for his night's work.

\---

Two hours later, he sat down on the curb and savored the rich aroma of his meat pie. The crust was golden brown and flaky, the gravy inside warm and thick. The meat chunks were small and of questionable origin, but he still gobbled down the whole pastry in under a minute. He took longer with his bottle of ale, sipping the bitter brew slowly, hoping to trick his stomach into feeling full from the small repast.

Finishing up, he ended up walking west, idly watching the crowds that were now bustling along the morning city streets. The fashions got better and better as he went, until his slovenly appearance was getting some looks of distaste in passing. 

He found a low stone wall near a park, and sat down, resting his weary limbs. This area of town was so much more peaceful than the one near his bed-sit. He just needed some quiet time to collect his thoughts. Time to look at a pretty green park and to smell flowers instead of being in the slum. It wasn't long until he was listing sideways, leaning against a pillar, as he snoozed lightly.

\---

Sherlock hummed in contentment as he sipped his coffee and flipped to the next page of his novel. The story was becoming quite intriguing.

A shadow appeared across his book, and he flicked his gaze up with irritation. "Oh, it's you." 

Unfazed by the cool greeting, his brother sat down on the other side of the table. Attentive staff soon took his order for tea and a croissant. "Sorry that I am late. London is crowded with so much riff-raff these days, my driver had a hard time getting through."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock leaned back, taking in Mycroft's perfectly tailored jacket, waistcoat and elaborately tied cravat. "Yes, they really should part like the Red Sea when your coach approaches." Needling his older brother was one of his favorite pastimes.

Chuckling slightly, Mycroft stirred some sugar into his beverage. "Come on. Surely you have noticed how overcrowded the city is now. And they keep having more and more children, to share in their misery."

"Don't they have just as much right to be here as you do?" Sherlock tilted his head slightly to challenge his brother. "Aren't all men created equal?" He sipped his coffee, enjoying the rich flavour.

Mycroft's lip curled slightly in disdain. "Oh God, are you an American now or something? Do you truly believe we are the same as that?" He waved at a ragged older man, pushing a cart full of horse manure up the street.

 _"Liberté, égalité, fraternité!"_ Sherlock exclaimed, causing a few other patrons to look at him afterwards.

Glaring at the brat, Mycroft leaned forward. "Oh, would you please shut up?" He looked around, nodding at a few other customers, trying to smooth things over. "Really, it's probably just a matter of time for something like that to happen here. The poor outnumber us ten to one at least. And they breed more."

 _"Vive la révolution!"_ Sherlock said, but not as loud as his previous outbursts, loving how riled up Mycroft was getting.

Sighing impatiently, Mycroft finished off his tea. "Do you want to be hauled out of your comfortable bed in the middle of the night, and have your head chopped off?"

Scoffing, Sherlock gave his imperious brother a glare. "You are the one who is going to inherit everything. You are one of the landowners repressing the poor, not me. My head will stay attached, Thank you very much."

"Surely you realize if something happens to me, you would be the heir, and just as much of a target." Mycroft poured more tea into his cup.

Sherlock shook his head. "We aren't nobility. The rabble has a lot of them to round up before they'd come after us."

"The Reign of Terror rounded up over 300,000, and 30,000 ended up dead. You do the math." He spread jam on his croissant.

Tapping his fingers on the table, Sherlock shrugged. "Accounts I've read say about 1 person out of 50 were targeted."

"Exactly! The top 2% of the population. The royalty, nobility and rich landowners. Wouldn't you say we are in the top 2%?" Mycroft looked quite proud, thinking he had won the argument.

Sherlock looked down at his cup moodily. Mycroft was insufferable when he thought he was smarter. "Well, can you blame the poor, unwashed masses for rising up? They've gotten the short end of the stick for a millennia."

"It's how the world is, Sherlock. We were born to live this way, it is in our blood." 

Leaning forward, Sherlock stared into his brother's dark green eyes. Everything about the man demonstrated his life of advantage; his clothes, his health, the proud tilt of his head. "So, you don't think we should help the poor?"

"Charity, sure." Mycroft shrugged. "But to give them much else, they would just waste it on gin and cheap amusements. You might as well throw your money into the Thames for all the good it would do."

Tilting his head to the side, Sherlock gave a small grin. "So, you think the disadvantaged are completely unredeemable? They have their lot, we have ours, and that's that? What about all the industrialists? Many of them came from simple homes with limited education, and now have fortunes to rival anyone."

"There are exceptions to every rule. But I don't think your average London riff-raff would have it in them to make something of themselves, even if they had the opportunity." Mycroft seemed quite sure of his convictions.

Sherlock nodded, steepling his fingers under his chin in thought. "It's the age-old question of Nature versus Nurture, isn't it? Is it in our blood to be the top of our society, or simply that we were born into a wealthy household by pure chance?"

"The former, obviously." Mycroft was dismissive, clearly getting bored with the whole topic. 

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock looked around the room at the other customers. All dressed impeccably in the latest fashions by their valets and ladies maids, playing their proper roll in society. Looking elegant and engaged in polite conversations. "We have both been around enough to know how many complete idiots there are in the upper class. Look at the nobility... we have a mad King and a Prince Regent who is constantly running into debt to buy the tightest trousers possible, and needs Parliament to bail him out."

Chuckling softly, his brother couldn't argue against Sherlock's last comment, even though he was a monarchist through and through. "He's getting far too old and fat for half the fashions he attempts to wear."

Sherlock grinned widely as an idea blossomed in his head. "How about a small wager? We surely could find a way to test our differing theories."

Mycroft seemed intrigued. "Hmmm...to prove that the gentry are idiots? Perform some kind of intelligence test?" He shook his head. "It would offend too many people. Impossible." He knew far too well how tactless his little brother could be around quality and already heard enough complaints about him.

"Then how about we do something involving the other end of the spectrum?" Sherlock drummed his long fingers against the tablecloth in thought.

"Yes, yes..." Mycroft leaned forward, and together they worked out a plan.

By the time Mycroft had paid the bill, they were in agreement. "All right, to summarize, we will select a disadvantaged man we mutually agree on, and you will have three months to reform him in any way you deem fit. Then, he will come to a society event and we will see if he can pass as one of us or not." 

Sherlock's lip curled at the thought of a society event. "Which one?" They were all mostly loathsome to him.

Mycroft's eyes glowed with amusement at his brother's discomfort. The idea of his rude brother acting like a finishing school for a broken down drunk or village idiot was just too delicious. He pondered the possibilities. "I know. Almack's."

Visibly shuddering at the thought, Sherlock sighed. The private club had been the acid test of society for decades, and those who didn't follow their strict dictates were denied admittance. "Fine."

"And he must dance with at least three debutantes." Mycroft added in, unable to hold back his grin as they left the restaurant.

"Fine." Sherlock held out his hand, and they sealed the deal. "Now, where shall we find my subject?"

Mycroft glanced around the posh neighborhood. "Well, certainly not around here." But then his eyes landed on a man tucked against a stone wall, in dirty, torn clothes, and obviously completely out of place. "Hold on, I think Fate is smiling on our plan."

He stepped briskly towards the man, walking stick rapping on the cobbles, and his brother following in his wake.

\---

A tapping noise that was growing louder roused John from his nap, and he reluctantly blinked up at the well-dressed gentlemen standing in front of him.

_Oh no. This was not good. It was best to be invisible around this type._

Shrinking down into his raggedy coat, John tried to appear as meek and harmless as possible. It wasn't too hard. He was already a smaller man than most, and frequently had people underestimate his strength. 

"You there." The taller man looked down his nose at John, his voice strident and demanding attention. "Sit up straight so we can see you properly." 

John was shocked at the request, and even more so when the man prodded him sharply with his walking stick. He sat up reluctantly, just hoping to satisfy them quickly and getting out of their attention soon.

"Perfect, perfect..." The other one was looking him over thoroughly, his light green eyes missing nothing. 

John felt intensely aware of his shoddy appearance. Only a few years ago, he had worn his military uniform so well, enjoying the flirtatious looks from many ladies in the months after Waterloo. Even having his arm in a sling hadn't diminished their regard. There was a certain appeal to fighting so hard for one's country that you risked life and limb. 

Now, he was in ill-fitting clothes, covered in mud and unmentionable other things, and he knew he stank. His hair was shaggy and unwashed. Whiskers covered his lower face. He was exhausted and knew his eyes probably reflected his struggles of recent years.

The taller one was nodding. "Yes, I concur." He gazed down at John. "What is your name?"

Confusion swirled around John's mind. Was he in trouble? What did these two want? What answer would make them go away? He regretted coming to this part of town now. Likely there had been some robbery nearby and they were seeking to pin it on the first person that looked out of place. His stomach clenched at the thought, and he glanced around, looking for a quick way to escape.

The one with darker hair tutted at the other. "You've scared him, Mycroft." He squatted down to be more at John's level. "Look, we mean you no harm. In fact, I'd like to offer you a rare opportunity."

"Opportunity?" John managed to croak, his voice sounding rough. 

Nodding, the man's eyes met his directly. "I would like to offer you a three month stay in my home. You will be provided healthy meals, clean clothes and access to my library."

John shook his head quickly. "Oh no, sir. I don't do that sort of thing. Maybe try along Ratcliffe." He shrunk back. 

It wasn't unheard of for the rich to take home a prostitute from the lowest classes. He had seen his share of dandies walking the slums. Likely taking advantage of the class difference to live out their basest urges. These men must be quite corrupt to be propositioning him so blatantly in a neighborhood like this in the morning hours.

The taller one scoffed. "He thinks you have designs on his body, Sherlock." 

The man still squatting nearby looked surprised at the comment, and gave John a swift shake of his head. "I assure you it is a respectable house, and I only want to clothe and feed you. I have three people on staff. You will be quite safe and free to leave if you do not deem it so."

John's brow furrowed. "What's in it for you?" He looked over the man, who was dressed well, and seemed a few years younger than John. His clothes, while well tailored to his slim frame, were not overly fussy and his neckcloth was tied simply. The other man's was an elaborate structure that had likely taken his valet ten minutes to create. 

Tilting his head to the side, the man shrugged. He shifted to sit beside John in the low stone wall. "I will be frank with you. My name is Sherlock and this is my older brother, Mycroft. Like all brothers, we squabble about everything and today we made a rather silly wager. One that involves you."

"A wager about me?" John's head was spinning. How the hell had he brought on their attention?

Sherlock gave him a small nod. "He is rather old fashioned in his ideas, and I seek to prove him wrong with your assistance. All you need to do is be my houseguest for three months. Surely you would like that?"

It sounded too good to be true, and John was sure there was more to it than that. "What is the wager?"

Chuckling, Mycroft patted Sherlock's shoulder. "My dear brother has those months to polish you up, and then bring you to Almack's. If you pass muster, he will win the bet."

John was familiar with the famous club of the elite. He let out a surprised laugh at the thought of trying to enter it.

Mycroft smirked at his brother. "See, even your subject thinks it's ludicrous."

Shaking off the comment, Sherlock looked even more determined. "Besides room and board, you will get to keep all the clothes I buy you." 

John looked back at the light green eyes, trying to read them. A spark of hope burnt deep in his chest. "The clothes, a letter of reference from you, and a £100, whether you win or lose the bet." These rich fools could be a chance for a new beginning. He could use the reference to land a good job, and get a regular income. The money would carry him over until he was established.

He was a little surprised to see Sherlock's reaction to his counteroffer. Instead of acting offended that a lower class man had challenged him, he got a nod of begrudging respect instead. "Fine, but it's £20 if we lose, £100 if we win. You need to have stakes in this as well." He held out his hand, his gaze steady and sure.

John wiped his against his coat before offering it to Sherlock, knowing it was still filthy. The tall man shook it firmly and let go, standing up gracefully. 

As John tried to follow him, his muscles refused to comply. The sleepless night, the scuffle, and sitting on cold stone had made him sore and stiff. He stood, knowing it wasn't very straight, feeling weak and ashamed.

It was even worse at Mycroft's soft chuckle. He was probably seeing how awful John looked, and considered his wager already won. 

"Good luck, Sherlock." Mycroft said, patting his shoulder before striding over to his elegant carriage. Liveried servants helped him inside and he was soon on his way. 

"Come along. We can get a cab the next block over." Sherlock said, waiting for John to start walking before matching his pace. 

As John walked along with the tall, well-dressed man, he just shook his head at this strange turn in his life. So many times, big events had changed his life suddenly like this. Hopefully, this undertaking would be a positive one. 

\---

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: Eeek! Another historical Johnlock story. I’ve been diving deep into the research. Please excuse any errors I make about European history or british-isms. Feel free to let me know if I make them, so I can learn.

-This is a WIP and I’ll hopefully be posting 1-2 times a week if my muse allows it. I’ll add character tags as they come up.

-This is very loosely based on ‘My Fair Lady’ (or the Greek myth of Pygmalion). I will be using the same general structure, but everything else will be original.

-John’s job: Sorry if this is a little confusing/vague in this chapter. More details will come about it in the next chapters. Bear with me.

- _"Liberté, égalité, fraternité!"_ : This is the slogan of the French Revolution meaning Liberty, Equality, Fraternity. The Revolution started in 1789, which was just 30 years before this story takes place. _"Vive la révolution!"_ means ‘Long Live the Revolution’.

-King George III: He reigned from 1760 – 1820. In the later part of his life, he had periods of recurrent, and eventually permanent, of mental illness. It wasn’t well understood then, and current theories suggest it could have been porphyria. After 1810, it was bad enough that his eldest son ruled in his place as the Prince Regent.

-Prince Regent: George IV reigned as King from 1820 – 1830, and as Prince Regent for the ten years before then. He lived an extravagant lifestyle, patronizing the arts in many forms and supported the founding of the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. The Regency period was a time when literature, art and architecture flourished. He wracked up huge debts, reaching £630,000 (equivalent to £58.7 million today) by 1795, and had trouble living on an yearly income of £60,000 (£5.6 million today) granted him by Parliament. His self-indulgent behavior and many mistresses made him an unpopular ruler during the post-Napoleonic era.

-Almack’s Assembly Room: This was an elite social club from 1765-1871 in London. It was a place to see and be seen, and where debutantes met gentlemen seeking brides of suitable ton. 

-Ratcliffe Highway: It’s a long street in the east end of London. In 19th century, the 'Society for the Suppression of Vice' estimated that between the Houndsditch, Whitechapel and Ratcliffe areas there were 1803 prostitutes; and between Mile End, Shadwell and Blackwall 963 women in the trade.


	2. Chapter 2

 

John's eyes were large as he stepped down from the hackney, looking around the square that he would call home for the next three months. Elegant townhouses faced towards the park in the middle, a well-groomed space with many trees, flower banks and lush grass. Not a weed or piece of trash in sight. 

Sherlock didn't pause to let John look around, but rushed up the front steps of the nearest townhouse and threw the door open. He looked back at John with a grin. "Come on now, don't doddle." 

Climbing up the wide front stairs, John entered the foyer and immediately felt too filthy for such a fine place. He awkwardly wiped his shoes against the mat at the entrance, hoping to knock any mud off. 

Shaking his head, Sherlock stepped forward to grab John's upper arm. "Don't worry about that. Once you are tidied up, we'll have a long chat over a good meal." He pushed John to the stairs, urging him upwards. 

There was someone coming down the steps who paused. John glanced quickly, and then did a literal double-take. 

"That is my manservant Donovan. He'll help you with your bath and get you some clean clothes." Sherlock remarked dismissively before walking into the drawing room.

 _He???_ John looked closer and there was no denying that it was a woman dressed in men's clothes; a waistcoat and trousers in a light grey tweed. Her dark hair was short and styled in a masculine fashion. 

Donovan caught John's glance and gave a knowing nod. "Please, come this way, sir." She led him into a bathroom unlike any John had seen before. The floor was covered with slate, and a wooden tub rested a few inches from the floor, sitting on a platform. 

There were some metal pipes and spigots attached to the wall, and Donovan fussed around with them. A few seconds later, water was emptying into the tub.

John was distracted from his examination of Donovan by this occurrence. He stared at the steaming hot water gushing out of the pipe in wonder. 

Chuckling, Donovan added some bubble bath to the water, and a fantastic fragrance filled the steamy room. "Have you never seen plumbing like this before?"

Shaking his head, John gazed back at her dark, intelligent eyes. "Is this something common now in wealthy houses?"

She put some towels on a nearby stool. "No, sir. Mr. Holmes has made some modifications to his residence that are quite peculiar but effective. You will have to ask him how it all works." She took a step towards John. "Now, let's get you undressed and into the water."

Stepping back rapidly, John bumped against the wall. "But you are a ..." He waved downwards at her body.

Smirking slightly, Donovan stepped closer, raising her hands to John's collar and unbuttoning it deftly. "That may be, but I've been Mr. Holmes' manservant for many years now. I've helped him dressing and bathing too many times to count. I doubt I'll see anything new."

Sighing, John let her undo the rest of the shirt buttons. "He doesn't realize what you are, does he?" 

Pulling off the dirty garment, Donovan chuckled again. "No, sir. And I'd be obliged to you if you didn't discuss it with him. I need this position."

Nodding, John left the topic alone as Donovan helped him out of the rest of his clothes. He had been in the army long enough to lose any modesty he may have once had. He tentatively stepped into the full tub, sighing as the hot water surrounded him.

"This is incredible." John moaned, feeling warmth down to his bones in a way he hadn't felt since returning to England. "Can I just stay here forever?" He closed his eyes in pleasure.

Hot water flooded down over his face, and he tipped his face forward, sputtering. "Hey!"

Donovan smirked at him, a playful glint in her eyes. "I'm just trying to wet your hair to wash it."

Rolling his eyes, John took a deep breath and sunk down into the water, until he was completely submerged. 

When he resurfaced, Donovan was sitting on a stool beside the bath. She worked his hair into a lather, scrubbing hard at his scalp, and practically had John moaning out loud. After she finished rinsing his hair, she motioned to the soap and sponge. "I'll leave you to do the rest while I find you some clean clothes."

Nodding, John felt a bit sleepy from the heat, his muscles relaxing. 

\---

Entering the dining room, John felt a little awkward. Sherlock was sitting at the table, reading a newspaper, but when he heard the floor squeak, he jumped up to walk around John. His eyes missed nothing.

Donovan had done a good job with the clothes. She had put him into a white shirt, a deep blue waistcoat, white breeches and stockings. His hair was trimmed and styled, and his face shaved. He was even walking straighter, his muscles loosened up from the bath. He felt like a new man.

"Excellent work, Donovan. We will buy him new clothes of his own soon, but you have done well in the meantime." He waved John to a chair at the table. "Please join me, John."

As he settled onto the cushioned chair, an older woman came in carrying a tray. She set it down on the table and unloaded a few dishes. 

"Mrs. Hudson, you haven't met our houseguest yet. This is John...," Sherlock paused in his introduction with a chuckle, glancing towards John. "I say, I don't know your surname."

John returned his smile. It had been quite a crazy day. "Watson, John Watson. And shall I address you as Mr. Holmes?"

Shaking his head quickly, he took up his cup of coffee. "Sherlock is fine while we are at home. Mr. Holmes when we are out in public." 

"A houseguest, you say?" Mrs. Hudson remarked. Her dark eyes were bright and alert as she looked him over. "Oh dear, you will be needing two bedrooms then." 

Sherlock served himself some soup from the tureen. "Yes, is that a problem?"

She tutted at him. "Of course, Sherlock! You have never had a houseguest in all the years you have lived here! The guest bedroom was converted into an office and is full of your projects." 

Shrugging his shoulders slightly, Sherlock looked over at John. "We will have to rearrange things to make room for John, and order a bed. He will be here three months, after all."

"Three months! Oh dear..." Mrs. Hudson at John in surprise again, and he felt a bit uncomfortable. It wasn't his place to explain the strange wager Sherlock had made with his brother to his staff. He had no idea what relationship he had with them.

"Donovan, you may as well come in here as well..." Sherlock called out to the hallway, waiting until she had stepped into the dining room. He looked over his staff. "John is an unemployed soldier with an injured shoulder. I have made a wager with Mycroft that I can have him pass for one of the elite in three months. He will be staying here during that period, and I'll need your help."

The women nodded, not seeming thrown at all by this turn in events. Not shocked at all that their master had brought home a filthy tramp whose full name he didn't even know. It showed how unconventional Sherlock was around them, on a regular basis. 

"We will do our best, Mr. Holmes." Mrs. Hudson nodded. "But there is still the issue of where our guest will sleep for the next night or two, until we can set up his room."

John jumped in. "I don't need much. I can sleep on the chesterfield or with some blankets on the rug. I've certainly slept in worse conditions than that."

"Oh, nonsense, John." Sherlock waved his suggestions away with an imperious hand. "My bed is large. I'm sure we can manage sharing it a couple nights."

He didn't give John a chance to argue the point, turning to discuss some other matters with his staff. It was obvious he had known them for years and spoke to them with respect. He dismissed them, telling Donovan to explain the situation to the stable boy.

Sherlock turned back to John when they had the room to themselves. He uncovered a dish, and served himself some mashed potato before passing it to John. "We eat a little informally here, since it's a small household. We serve ourselves. Please, eat as much as you want. There is plenty."

The mouth-watering scents of food had been distracting John since he had entered the room, and he eagerly filled his plate. Sherlock watched, amused, as John ate enthusiastically, often pouring him more wine or passing him more food. The encouragement spurned John to eat his fill, almost groaning in contentment when he felt stuffed and couldn't eat another bite. He had never eaten so much good food in one sitting before in his life.

Chuckling, Sherlock encouraged him back to the drawing room to allow Mrs. Hudson to clear away the dishes. John took a cup of tea instead of port, and declined the offer of a cigar. They sat in comfortable chairs near the fireplace.

"How did you know about my shoulder? Or that I had been a soldier?" John asked, his natural curiosity bubbling up.

Sherlock shrugged slightly. "I believe I'm more observant than most people, likely a result of being a man of science. I've trained myself to watch for small details, like the way your posture shows your military training, and the slight stiffness when you lift your arm."

John nodded. "Do you really think I can win this wager? I feel so out of my element here."

"I do." Sherlock looked him over slowly, his light green eyes assessing. "A bath and a change of clothes have already done wonders. We will take it slowly, until you feel more confident. You will need clothes tailored to you, lessons on how to conduct yourself, dance lessons."

Blinking slowly, John looked at his host. "You are going to train me on all that?" 

A quick smile warmed Sherlock's expression. "Hardly. I am usually quite contemptuous of social dictates. But I know some people we can consult."

"I feel a bit overwhelmed by all this, Sherlock. I have hardly been in England for the last twenty years, fighting all over the continent. I was even shocked by your bathroom!" John said, shaking his head.

Sherlock drew himself up, a look of boyish enthusiasm in his eyes. "Isn't it fantastic? I designed the system myself. I've dabbled in steam powered pumps, and the servants have found the hot water quite convenient."

Leaning forward, John found he couldn't take his eyes away from Sherlock. "How does it work?"

Clearly seeing the interest there, Sherlock went into a detailed explanation. "There is always a fire going in the kitchen, so water is heated by pipes in the hearth. They feed into a reservoir in the bathroom, that holds the heated water, cooler water being pushed out to cycle down to be heated by the hearth again."

"Brilliant!" John exclaimed, leaning back in his chair. "You must show me your equipment sometime."

Sherlock seemed pleased by the praise. "I do enjoy hot baths and it was always too much to ask Mrs. Hudson or Donovan to carry up so much hot water. They enjoy the baths also, and using the hot water for laundering clothes."

John nodded, considering the possibilities. 

"I've even considered having the piping installed around the floor of each room, to radiate heat and reduce the need for fireplaces in each room." Sherlock offered, and it started a long discussion.

The warmth of the fire, the wine and large dinner were making John quite sleepy, despite the interesting conversation. 

"John, I'll get Donovan to get you ready for bed. You will find I keep late hours. Please make yourself at home while you are here." Sherlock said, getting up and pulling the bell pull for Donovan. 

Donovan appeared quickly, and assisted John upstairs. She gave him a loose nightshirt, and turned down the far side of the bed before leaving.

John changed, feeling sleepy, but still glancing at the bed. Was this going to be safe? It all seemed too good to be true. This morning he was trying to earn enough to be able to eat a meal, and now he was crawling into a soft, warm bed. Clean, full and slightly drunk.

Would he wake up to Sherlock's wandering hands? Have to battle the taller, healthier man off? Was everything in the last few hours just to lull John into a trusting, relaxed state?

He had learned at a young age to watch for the dark side in people, to watch his back. It was a harsh world at times, and people did what they needed to survive. The rich could be heartless towards the poor sometimes too, treating them practically like insects. Completely beneath their notice.

Crawling into the bed, John let out a deep breath and tried to relax. He had watched Sherlock closely all night, and could see he was a bit abrupt in his manner of speaking at times, not seeming inclined to flowery language or false compliments. But he seemed to have genuine respect and warmth towards his staff, which they returned, and that meant a lot. He had met John's eyes directly, never seeming to be anything but forthright. 

John would give this a chance. If he didn't get his own bedroom in a couple days, he was probably being groomed for a type of personal service he wasn't interested in, no matter how good the food and wine were. He would enjoy things while he was there, but at the first sign of trouble, he would be out the door.

 

\---

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-Indoor Plumbing: London in this time had cold running water from the Thames to the better houses. Indoor toilets were being used some places, although chamber pots were still quite common. Bathing wasn't that frequent, as servants usually had to heat the water in the kitchen and haul it to the bedroom, in several trips. Many questioned if it could endanger ones health to bathe too often. Steam power was starting to be used to pump water out of mines, and I can see Sherlock experimenting with the possibilities in his own house.

-Donovan: Sally dressing as a man to be Sherlock's manservant, a combination of a valet and butler, is a bit of a nod towards Molly in Abominable Bride. But there are examples of women living as men during much of history, as soldiers, doctors and servants. I'll go into Sally's backstory in future chapters. There is a 2011 film, 'Albert Nobbs' that has Glenn Close living as an Irish butler in the 19th century that is worth a watch. 


	3. Chapter 3

John woke feeling very disorientated. It was so quiet, unnaturally so. The room was dark, except the glow from the banked coals in the fireplace. He was in a soft bed, with clean sheets and thick blankets cocooning him in warmth. He felt completely comfortable. Warm, not hungry, and well rested. It was a completely strange feeling, one he had not felt since childhood.

He gradually became aware of the sounds of gentle breathing coming from nearby, and turned onto his side to face the sleeping man sharing the bed. Sherlock looked very young in the dim light, his face relaxed and peaceful, and his curly hair messy against the pillow. John guessed him to be about five years younger than he was, maybe 35 at the oldest. 

John hadn't noticed Sherlock getting into the bed, so it must have been quite late. He had kept to his side of the large bed, as promised, not disturbing John at all.

What would the next few months be like, spending so much time with this privileged young man? Hopefully, they would get along and Sherlock would do what he had promised. John was willing to soak up every lesson he provided. The more cultured he became, the easier it would be to get a job afterwards. With his weakened shoulder, he couldn't do manual work like most of his soldier friends had found. He needed to look the part to get a job as an office clerk or something similar.

This could really be the chance he needed. A way for a new, fresh start. A new chapter in his life. Feeling inspired, he got out of the bed and pulled on his clothes from yesterday before heading out of the bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

Going downstairs, he hesitated in the hallway, not sure where he was permitted to go. Luckily, Donovan must have heard him on the steps and stepped through a doorway to greet him with a smile. 

"Good day, Mr. Watson. You look quite refreshed this morning." She waved him into the dining room and held out his chair. "Help yourself to breakfast, and the newspapers."

"Thank you, Donovan." John answered, feeling a little strange having someone wait on him this way. "Should I wait for Mr. Holmes to come down, to eat together?"

Donovan scoffed lightly. "That man rarely gets up before 10 am most days. He keeps late hours. You likely won't see him until lunch, so go ahead and explore the library or garden after your meal."

Nodding, John accepted a cup of coffee from her before she left him alone in the quiet, elegant room. The oak table was big enough to seat a dozen people comfortably, but only two places were set up. 

Serving himself some breakfast, he settled down to read the paper, enjoying this quiet time to eat. There were stories about Parliament resisting the Prince's requests for more funds, talk of labor unrest in the north, and debate over increasing taxes to reduce the national debt from fighting France for so long.

Needing a break from all the bad news of the papers, John went into the library, marveling at so many shelves of books. Not quite sure where to start, he picked a slim volume randomly and settled on the armchair by the fire. 

He was soon chuckling out loud, needing to wipe away tears from laughing so hard. 

There was a tsk sound, and a piece of white material flipped over the edge of his book. He looked up to see Sherlock standing in front of him, wearing buckskin breeches with a deep green coat.

"What's that for?" 

Sherlock gave him an unimpressed look. "To wipe your eyes. To wipe any part of your face that feels moist. And remember that's your handkerchief and that's your sleeve and don't confuse one with the other if your want to win the bet."

John took the square of fabric and wiped his eyes, and offered it back to his host, who shook his head and motioned for John to keep it.

"What has you so diverted?" Sherlock asked.

John glanced up, his dark blue eyes crinkled in amusement. _"I have been assured by a very knowing American of my acquaintance in London, that a young healthy child, well nursed, is, at a year old, a most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome food..."_ He read out, still chuckling slightly.

Sherlock returned his grin. _"...whether Stewed, Roasted, Baked, or Boiled."_ He finished off the quote. "If you like Jonathan Swift, you should also read 'Gulliver's Travels'. Lots of satire in that novel as well."

John set the book down when Sherlock took the seat across from his. "I look forward to reading it."

"I have invited an old family friend to join us for luncheon today. She knows London society better than I do and can help us create a plan for the next few months." Sherlock explained.

The doorbell jangled just then, and they could hear Donovan greeting their guest. A few moments later, an attractive woman with dark hair stepped into the library.

"Molly." Sherlock rose and walked over to the younger woman, and led her back to John. "John, this is Molly Hooper. Her family owns the country estate next ours, so we essentially grew up together. Molly, this is John Watson, the man I mentioned to you in my letter."

John followed Sherlock's actions, already standing when he did to greet the visitor. Now he felt a little uncomfortable, unsure how to act. "Good day, Miss Hooper."

She gave him a kind smile, her large dark eyes friendly as she took him in. Sitting down on the sofa, she pulled off her gloves and set them beside her reticule. "Please, call me Molly."

Donovan brought in a tray of tea and they were soon sipping the hot beverage. The delicate china cup felt light and far too fragile in his hands. He took a bigger sip, wanting to relieve the dryness of his mouth from nerves, and only succeeded in burning his tongue slightly.

"So, Molly, what do you think? Can I reform John to fit into society within three months?" Sherlock asked, leaning back in his chair.

Molly's eyes scanned over John again critically. "It will take a lot of work, but I think so."

Looking pleased, Sherlock smiled at her, and John saw the way she blushed slightly in reaction, looking down shyly. _Oh, she is interested in him._ John looked back for similar signs in Sherlock, but found only casual friendship in his manner.

"You should have seen him yesterday! Wearing filthy, torn clothes, his hair in complete disarray, and smelling just awful. Donovan has done wonders with him already." Sherlock said.

John felt uncomfortable, feeling embarrassed for how low he had been. 

"Sherlock! You mustn't say such rude things." Molly admonished, giving John an apologetic look. "Please excuse Sherlock. He's been a spoiled brat his whole life, never thinking about other people's feelings when he speaks." 

Not offended by the statement, Sherlock nodded. "Yes, that's exactly why I enlisted Molly's help. She is much more polite than I am. Follow her example, not mine. So, what do you think we need to do for John?"

"Well, we should try to train him in as many gentlemanly activities as we can. The more he is familiar with, the more he will fit in and seem natural during conversation. I see you have already got him reading." Molly nodded to the book near John.

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "Yes, we will encourage reading on a large range of topics. Plus the newspapers each day, of course."

Molly's big brown eyes went back to John, tilting her head slightly as she reviewed him. He felt a little self-conscious, being under such scrutiny. "Your accent is hard to place. Where are you from, John?"

"I grew up here, in the East End, but worked with men from all over England in the army. I got teased a lot for my accent back then, and worked at sounding more like everyone else," John replied.

She nodded. "Donovan has cleaned him up well, but he will need new clothes that fit him better. Plus, breeches aren't worn as much now. Most men wear pantaloons. Perhaps you should get some as well." Molly looked down at Sherlock's buckskin breeches, her eyes lingering a few seconds too long on the material clinging to his muscular thighs.

John was almost chuckling to himself, watching their interplay. Molly was so obvious in her feelings, and Sherlock so oblivious. Was he like this around all women? No wonder he was still single.

Sherlock made a face at her suggestion of getting clothes himself. "Is that really necessary?"

"Yes." Molly said firmly, her eyes challenging his. "You will eventually be taking John out into the world, and you need to look fashionable to do so."

"Take John out into the world? I only need to take him to Almack's at the end of the three months." Sherlock objected.

Rolling her eyes slightly, Molly sighed. "You can hardly keep John locked up in the house the whole time, Sherlock. He needs to be familiar with London and society, and needs practice interacting with people. And not just your science associates."

Sherlock sighed in defeat. "Fine, fine. We will follow your plan. I'm sure you want me to beat Mycroft in this bet just as much as I do."

Molly nodded, getting up to go over to the desk to pull out a blank piece of paper. "Exactly! What other reason could I have?"

And as they made up a long list of things John needed to learn during his stay, he chuckled to himself at how often Molly volunteered to help with the execution of their plan. She would be available to help with lessons about manners and picking out new clothes, and escort them to outings to the theatre or Vauxhall gardens. 

Molly seemed a few years younger than Sherlock, so likely around 27 years old. From his little knowledge of society so far, he knew enough that it was considered 'on the shelf' to still be unwed at her age. Molly clearly was stepping up her game, her target in sight. Her reason for being so interested in the bet was clear. And looking at the determination in her eyes, John wouldn't be surprised if she wore Sherlock's engagement ring by the time they went to Almack's.

\---

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-Hankerchief: Sherlock's comment about handkerchiefs and sleeves is from My Fair Lady. 

-A Modest Proposal: Jonathan Swift published this essay anonymously in 1729. The full title is _’A Modest Proposal For Preventing the Children of Poor People From being a Burthen to Their Parents or Country, and For making them Beneficial to the Publick’._ The satirical piece suggests the impoverished Irish might ease their economic troubles by selling their children as food for rich gentlemen and ladies. His masterpiece is considered to be ‘Gulliver’s Travels’, published in 1726.

-Men’s Fashions: Breeches (trousers that went to just below the knee and were worn with stockings) were popular in the 18th century. By the Regency period, pantaloons were more in fashion. They were a tight, full-length trouser with a stirrup that went below the foot. Trousers with a wider leg increased in popularity after 1810.

-Molly: I've made her age around 27, which is 7 years younger than Sherlock. I'm basing her a little on Jane Austen's character Anne Elliott from 'Persuasion' (1817), who is this age.


	4. Chapter 4

John looked up at the large beast, with its flaring nostrils and huge dark eyes, and just shook his head, stepping back. "No, no..."

"Come on, John..." The rich baritone voice coming from behind him cajoled, and then he felt a large hand settle on his shoulder. Sherlock stepped up to his side. "Look, I know it can be a little daunting at first, but I think you will pick this up quickly."

He patted the mahogany fur on the creature’s neck, and it shifted, making a low noise that had John skittering back slightly.

"It's alright, Mr. Watson, really. Hickory is a lovely gentleman. Here, feed him this carrot and you'll be his friend forever." The stable boy, Bill, handed John the vegetable with an encouraging grin.

Tentatively taking it, John held it out to the horse. Hickory snorted and swung his huge head around, massive teeth opening near his hand. John dropped the carrot, jumping back with a yelp.

Chuckling, Sherlock retrieved it from the ground before the horse could. He stepped up to John's side. "Come on, I'll help you." He passed the carrot back to him, and then wrapped his hand over John's. He lifted their joined hands to the horse's mouth, speaking to the animal in soothing tones, as it gently pulled the vegetable away and crunched on it. 

He gave John a little yank, pulling him between him and the horse, and lifted their hands again to run along the soft fur of Hickory's neck. "There, there. Let him get to know your touch, your smell. Horses can sense fear, so you need to learn to relax around them."

His heart was still pounding, but his breathing was slowing down now, just unwinding enough to enjoy the feel of the fur and the warm body of the animal. The horse was standing calmly, and Sherlock had continued his soothing murmur. The sound of his voice seemed to work on John just as well as Hickory, feeling his shoulders sinking to a more normal position. 

"Now, let's get you up on the saddle." Sherlock said firmly, stepping back and assessing the height of the stirrup. "Are you able to get your foot into this and then swing up and over? Bill will hold Hickory's head, to keep him in place."

John sighed, knowing there was no way of getting out of this. Molly and Sherlock were determined that John learn how to ride, saying that all gentlemen knew how. Plus, Sherlock didn't own a carriage and it would be more convenient to get around town by horse than hiring hackneys all the time. 

He nodded at Sherlock, and reached up to grip the saddle as he put his left foot into the stirrup. The taller man was standing behind him, and John felt self-conscious as he tried to do the thing he had seen others do so easily. With a big push off, he propelled himself upwards, and swung his weight over the horse, landing hard and off-center in the saddle. 

Sherlock's hands steadied him, and John shifted to be more stable. 

"Not bad for a first try, Mr. Watson." Bill said with a nod.

Walking around the back of the horse, Sherlock lifted John's right foot and got it into the stirrup. His hand rested on John's knee. "How does the length of the stirrups feel?"

John felt a little breathless, and he wasn't entirely sure it was just from sitting on the tall horse. His riding breeches were thin enough that he could feel the heat from Sherlock's hand, the sensation zinging awareness up his leg. "Um, yes, it is fine."

Taking the reins from Bill, Sherlock looped them over Hickory's head. "Now, hold out your hand."

John followed his instructions, holding out his gloved hand as Sherlock threaded the leather strap between his pinky and ring finger, laying the rest over his palm. "There, now close you hand." 

Sherlock mounted his own horse, and demonstrated the rein motions, and John tried them out, getting Hickory to walk around the back garden with Bill hovering nearby. Soon, he was moving with the gentle motions, and his tension was unwinding. Hickory seemed like a calm, tolerant horse.

"Now, watch as I dismount, and then see if you can follow my actions." Sherlock said, stopping his black horse. John watched closely as he pulled his right foot free of the stirrup, leaning forward on the horse as he swung his leg gracefully, and lowered himself down. 

John copied the motions, and was soon standing back on solid ground, feeling pleased and a little sore. Even the quick lesson had taxed seldom-used muscles.

Sherlock chuckled as John passed the reins to Bill, and walked to join him. "We will do a little more each day, get your body used to it. Why don't you go have a hot bath? It will really help."

"Alright." John agreed. He usually followed suggestions of Sherlock and his team, trusting their knowledge and experience. Maybe it was partly from being a soldier so many years, following orders. 

Sherlock re-mounted, his frisky stallion prancing in place. "I'll take Samson for a ride in the park. See you at supper."

\---

"Sherlock! Sit still!" Molly laughed, giving the brat an exasperated look. 

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock moved back into position. "Fine. Ten minutes more and you better be done."

John wandered behind Molly, watching as her brush stroked over the paper, capturing Sherlock's image. "That is wonderful, Molly."

"It's because she's drawn me dozens of times." Sherlock mumbled, sounding bored. "You'd think she would tire of this face by now."

Her brush mixed the perfect tone of sage green, and John looked between her work and the subject as she completed his eyes, capturing the intelligence and wry humor somehow. 

"Most of the time I draw him when he reads. At least he stays still and doesn't complain as much then." Molly glanced over at John. "I just wanted to paint him wearing pantaloons for the first time."

Pulling up a chair, John watched Molly as she painted, his eyes frequently on Sherlock, a convenient excuse to look his full. He was wearing the new camel pantaloons with black riding boots, the style making his legs look long and muscular. A waistcoat in a similar tone with a subtle pattern hugged his torso. His black tailcoat and white shirt were a neutral background for the deep red cravat knotted around his neck. 

He wore the new clothes with ease, looking like he was born to wear them. John had similar clothing on, tailored to his frame, but they still felt a bit snug and confining. The last couple weeks, he had been eating well, and he had lost his gaunt look. He could feel his strength improving, sleeping well and going for daily walks in the parks nearby, away from the squalor of the slums. 

Sherlock scoffed, looking down at the full-length trousers. "Didn't this trouser style put the whole stocking industry out of work? Look what your fickleness in fashion is doing to people."

"It was machines taking over the work as well, producing more product with less skilled workers." John corrected. 

Molly looked up from her easel to meet John's eyes. "So many families in textiles have been affected. So much unemployment, especially up north."

"It is sad, but I don't think it justifies taking up arms and marching on the capital." Sherlock said, picking up the newspaper.

John looked around the room, at Sherlock and Molly dressed in their fine clothes, sipping tea and nibbling on scones. They had never known what it was like to be poor. "People are desperate. They just want to work, to feed their children. The government was way too harsh, hanging and beheading those protesters."

Lowering his paper, Sherlock glared at John. "I disagree. People have to adapt in these changing times. Trevithick ran a successful test of a horseless carriage a decade ago. What if they catch on and we stop using horses to get around? Should the government support all the people who breed, sell, and care for horses if the need isn't there anymore?"

"Come on, Sherlock. Surely you can see that changes happen very quickly sometimes. People need time to adjust, to retrain for other work, or move to a different place." Molly pointed out, still painting Sherlock with small strokes of her brush. 

John looked between Molly and Sherlock, feeling a glow of affection towards them both. She had been over most days, to eat dinner or supper with them, showing John how to eat like a gentleman. Learning the cutlery and the refined table manners expected. There were some trickier dishes, like lobster, and John grew impatient with the delicate dissection, wanting to tear the shell apart to savor every bite of the wonderful meat. 

Her input had them both dressed in the current fashions, her artistic eye combining subdued neutral pieces with a few bolder items, like Sherlock's red cravat. Luckily Donovan set out John's clothes every day, so he didn't have to worry about being dressed appropriately.

Although Molly dressed with care, and flirted mildly with Sherlock, he still treated her with only brotherly affection in return. John shook his head at this, and swore to himself to watch for a good match for Molly as they went out more into society. 

Tomorrow, they were going to John's first public outing. Sherlock was taking him to a lecture at The Royal Society, where he would introduce John to a few friends and associates. Just dipping his toe into the water, to see how he would do, and what rough edges may appear to work on later. He was nervous and excited.

"Alright, Sherlock, I'm done now." Molly put down her brush and rolled her shoulders. 

John looked at the finished piece. "Very good job, Molly. You captured him well."

Sherlock came around the easel, reviewing the painting critically. "My nose is a little large. And is my hair really so curly?"

Molly chuckled. "You never approve of any of my pictures. I shall have to continue drawing you until I get it right." Shrugging, she dumped the picture in the wastepaper bin, and started a new one of the view from the window.

After dinner, John fished the piece out of the garbage, and took the watercolor up to his room, tucking it into a book Sherlock had bought him. The simple painting wasn't perfect, but it was something he could keep to remind him of his friends. 

\---

John was reading in bed, when he heard a familiar noise in the hallway. Sherlock's bedroom door gave a soft click as it was closed. It happened almost every night around this time, and tonight John was going to satisfy his curiosity.

Turning down his lamp, John put on his coat and shoes quickly, and silently stepped into the corridor, listening hard. He could hear Sherlock walking out the back door, and rushed down the steps to catch up. 

After so many years, it was second nature to stick to the shadows and walk silently behind the tall man, keeping back far enough to avoid detection. His energy levels were better than the last time he had followed someone, being healthier and well fed, and he kept up easily.

It was surprising to see Sherlock heading towards a rougher part of town, soon taking some twisty alleyways on his journey that made John follow him closer. John almost thought he had lost him at one point, but then spotted him moving down some stairs to a basement flat with its own entrance. Even more surprising when instead of knocking, Sherlock pulled out a key, and unlocked the door before stepping inside.

John hung back, waiting. Why was Sherlock leaving the house so late every night, when everyone else was asleep? Why was he coming to this small, cheap apartment? Did he have an inappropriate girlfriend, someone he couldn't meet within polite society? 

It made sense, somehow. He presented an unsociable demeanor, so people weren't surprised he didn't attend many society events or that he was single. But secretly, he had a relationship to fulfill his emotional and sexual needs. Was the woman already there, in the flat, or would she arrive soon?

John waited in a good vantage point, able to see the activity in the area and the door to the flat. The shades were drawn, so he couldn't see what was going on inside. 

Someone in a large coat turned the corner and was soon knocking softly on the door. Sherlock answered quickly, and light spilled over his guest. Bill, the stable boy, nodded at Sherlock before stepping inside and closing the door.

John was considering the options of what they were doing here together. Were they secret lovers? It was very illegal for men to be together that way, so no wonder they kept things so hush-hush. Plus, they were from such different backgrounds. Was it a thrill for Sherlock, being with such a lowly man? It was hard to put these ideas together with the Sherlock he had come to know.

Barely five minutes later, the two men exited the flat, and headed down a different alleyway. John rushed to follow them, noticing Sherlock had changed his fine clothes for dirty rags, and had a cap pulled down over his hair. Where were they going? John's heart sunk, knowing that it must be to do something terrible. They wouldn't go to such lengths to hide their actions otherwise.

Their twisty journey took them to a park where Bill pulled a wooden handcart from the bushes, before they carried on their way. They didn't speak to each other, walking fast to their destination.

John hung back when they stopped, pulling shovels out of a canvas sack on the cart. They dug fast, shoveling the soil onto a piece of canvas laid out on the grass. After about ten minutes, Bill jumped down into the hole, fussing around a little. Sherlock looked around the dark area, John ducking behind a tree, and gave Bill a nod. There was a muffled sound of wood snapping, and then Sherlock was bending down towards Bill, hauling up a large item. 

With a stifled gasp of horror, John realized it was a dead woman, pulled from her coffin. Sherlock was stripping her clothes off, throwing them down to his accomplice, and then shoved the naked woman into a large canvas sack. Bill crawled out of the grave, and the men pushed the loose soil back into the hole, patting it down. 

Together, they lifted their morbid bounty onto the handcart, returning their shovels to their sack beside her, and checking that the site looked as undisturbed as possible. Barely twenty minutes had passed when the men were retracing their steps, heading back to the seedy flat.

Bill helped Sherlock carry the large bundle into the flat, and promptly left to hide the handcart away. Sherlock was left alone, with hours of the dark night left to his macabre business.

John waited, tucked into his spot as before, but Bill did not return. It wasn't until after four that Sherlock appeared again, dressed in his normal clothes, locking the door of the flat, and walking briskly home.

\---

Back in his own bed, John felt wide-awake even though it was almost dawn. The images of the night repeated again and again in his mind, searching for any small thing to make sense of it all. Was there any possible reasonable explanation for what he had seen? Sherlock had taken a naked woman, fresh from her grave, back to his secret flat, to spend several hours alone with her. What could he possibly have done to her? The options sickened John.

It was also undeniable that Sherlock and Bill had done the same thing before. There had been no hesitation in their actions, working together quickly and efficiently to carry out their sordid crime. John had heard Sherlock coming and going from the house at similar times the last few weeks. It was his regular habit to be out of the house for these hours, sleeping in until 10 am, and acting perfectly normal with everyone during the day.

John wasn't sure what bothered him the most; what he had witnessed tonight, or trying to reconcile it all with the man he had come to know, the man he had come to think of as a friend. 

\---

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: Well, that took quite a turn, didn't it? Please don't judge too harshly yet...more to come soon. 

-Luddites: The Industrial Revolution began in England around 1760, with gradual changes in many areas from skilled hand production methods in people's cottages to factory based production, using technology and machines, in cities. Textile workers were quite affected by this, and some chose to protest by damaging weaving equipment. They used the name 'Luddites', gaining inspiration from an apprentice, Ned Ludd, who had destroyed two stocking frames in 1779. 

-Pentrich Rising: In June 1817, a few hundred men (stockingers, quarrymen and iron workers) set out towards Nottingham, thinking they would be joining others there to march to London together. They were lightly armed with pikes, scythes and a few guns. A government spy was in their midst and the uprising was soon quashed. Three of the leaders were tried and executed for treason, hanged and beheaded.

-Horseless Carriages: This was the early name for automobiles. In 1803, the first horseless carriage was demonstrated in London, Britain, as made by Richard Trevithick. It was a carriage modified to run with steam power and looked quite huge and unwieldy. Steam power was used to power trains, boats and machines more as the decades passed. Automobiles became more common in the 1890's using the internal combustion engine fueled by gasoline, and the use of horses declined sharply after that. 


	5. Chapter 5

"The lecture today should be quite a good one." Sherlock was sitting forward on the hackney seat, his leg bouncing. He reminded John a little of a dog on a leash who was pulling on it, wanting to be set free to run. "Dr. Blundell will be presenting his theories on blood transfusion."

John nodded to be polite and returned to looking out the window. He had slept fitfully, waking late only when Donovan brought him a breakfast tray with tea and toast. Still feeling a bit groggy, he hadn't spoken much to Sherlock today. 

He was a bit stuck for words anyways. The images from the night before still repeated in a loop in his mind, and he kept contrasting the Sherlock in his ragged clothing and cap, carrying a body into that flat, with the well-dressed gentleman of today.

The hackney stoped and they got out at Somerset House. Entering the North Wing, Sherlock walked them into the Royal Society rooms, greeting many people with a quick hello or nod of the head in passing. 

He stopped before an older man with silvery-white hair and a mustache. "Dr. Clark, I'd like you to meet my friend Mr. Watson. This is his first lecture at the Society." 

John exchanged greetings and simple pleasantries with the man, glad for all of Molly's instructions on the topic. His behavior didn't seem to be questioned by the doctor at all. 

"Did you hear the sad news, Mr. Holmes? Dr. Blundell was called away to attend a patient, so they made a last-minute substitution." Dr. Clark explained. 

The doors to the assembly room opened and the crowd of men shuffled inside, taking their seats. 

Sherlock shook his head in reply as he sat beside the doctor, with John on his other side. "Oh, that is too bad. I hope they reschedule him. I wanted to ask him about coagulation."

The crowd settled down, the room almost completely full. A man came out, confirming the news that Dr. Clark had stated, and announced that the member Mr. Anderson had kindly stepped in for the presentation today. Sherlock let out a groan, and shifted in his chair, slumping in disappointment.

"John, please do not judge the Society by what you will witness next. Anderson is a certifiable idiot." Sherlock leaned in to whisper into John's ear. 

The message made John more curious as people on stage wheeled out some carts of equipment, all wearing aprons over their clothing, and with their coats removed. Their sleeves were rolled up to their elbows. After a few minutes, a gurney was rolled out, with the unmistakable shape of a body beneath a white sheet.

John was glad he had only had a light breakfast as a suspended large mirror was lowered down over the body, tilted into the best position. His stomach clenched and rolled, as a man walked out, dressed like the others, and pulled back the sheet.

The body was of a naked woman, of about fifty years of age. Her face was covered still with a smaller cloth. 

"Good day, Gentlemen. Today, we will be examining the body of this older woman, searching for the cause of her death as well as any other abnormalities." Mr. Anderson spoke quickly, glancing around the hall before picking up a scalpel.

John held his breath as the man made a Y-shaped incision on the woman's chest, describing his process as he went. The woman had not been dead long, from what he could tell from his years on battlefields. Still, the casual way the man cut into the woman's flesh, coldly describing it to the audience, sickened him. 

Looking at Sherlock, he could see he was bored and annoyed, but certainly not shocked by what was happening on stage. He gave an occasional tsk noise of disgust, mumbling to Dr. Clark about Anderson's sloppy process, or things he missed. 

Similarly, the well-dressed crowd seemed mostly attentive to the gory demonstration. There were no sounds of outrage or disgust. 

John mostly looked anywhere but at the bloody mess on the gurney, and hoped it would end soon. He was eager to escape outside, and breath some fresh air. 

Sherlock tensed beside him, and John's instincts had him looking at what had caused the reaction. Following his gaze, he could see Sherlock staring attentively at the woman's face. The cloth covering it had slipped, and one of the attendants quickly pulled it back into place. 

Thankfully, the demonstration ended not much later. Sherlock finally saw how uncomfortable John was, and didn't linger long saying goodbye to his associates, before pulling John outside.

"I apologize for subjecting you to that spectacle, John." Sherlock said gravely in the hackney as they went home. "Anderson's work with the knife lacks any finesse."

"This, this..." John swallowed hard, trying to find the words, "...this type of thing, cutting up a woman...is this what your society does often?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rose at the question. "Well, yes. Perhaps I should have prepared you better beforehand, but I truly thought we were simply having a lecture from an obstetric doctor. If I had known it was going to be Anderson, we would have come another day. He is the epitome of what is bringing the Royal Society down, shaming our proud history of great thinkers like Sir Isaac Newton."

John looked back out the window, before staring back at the man he had started to think of as a friend. "And you do this as well, don't you?" Even though his stomach rolled at the thought, he had to know. The sick realization had hit him during the session. 

Sherlock noticed his friend's state then, his face sobering. "John, you need to understand..." His words were cut off as the hackney stopped and he was busy paying the driver.

He followed John into the drawing room. "The men in the Society are natural philosophers, men of science, John. We are all there with a common interest, to understand the world as it truly is. To question everything and experience it ourselves. _Sapere aude._ "

John whirled around to face the taller man. "What does that mean?" 

"Dare to know." Sherlock said simply. His green eyes searched John's. "You have been quiet all morning and you slept later than normal. You don't seem to be yourself today, John."

Scoffing, John turned and walked over to the window, looking out as it started to rain. The weather suited his stormy mood. "And you don't seem to be the man I had come to know either. Recent events are making me question if I know you at all."

Sherlock sat down on a chair, his brow furrowed as he watched John pacing back and forth. "John, something is bothering you, obviously. Sit down, tell me what it is." He waved a hand at the nearby sofa.

Disregarding the gesture, John planted his feet and stared down at his host. "I saw you last night, Sherlock." He let the words sink in, watching his expressions closely, watching for signs of evasion or denial.

Blinking slowly, Sherlock stilled, his eyes seeking answers from John as well. "Last night...?"

"Yes. I got curious about where you go every night, so I followed you. Saw your little dingy flat, saw your excursion with Bill, saw what you put into that canvas sack." John said simply, wanting Sherlock to know that he knew. Wanting to see his reaction.

Sherlock did not look away, did not appear ashamed. He gave a small dismissive shrug. "You could have simply asked me, John."

John gave another small scoff. "And you would have simply admitted to grave robbing and defiling bodies?"

Launching himself from his chair, Sherlock looked affronted at the accusations. "I can hardly admit to something I haven't done, John."

"I saw you two dig up a grave, and pull out a dead woman. I saw you carry the woman into your flat. What do you call it?" John was practically shouting, glaring at the other man across the room. "Are you denying you did that?" 

Sherlock let out a huff, and sat back down. "Of course not. But if you saw all that, you must have seen that we left her clothes, all of her belongings, behind."

John shook his head at this whole conversation. "What does that matter?"

"According to the law, we are not grave robbers. We didn't take her jewelry or anything of value." Sherlock said, a matter-of-factly. He sat there calmly, no sign of remorse or guilt in any of his mannerisms.

John sunk to the sofa, rubbing his hands over his face. "You took her body, Sherlock." He stated, wearily.

Sherlock shrugged again. "You act like it was a crime, but is there any injured party here? The woman is dead. Her friends and family have given her a proper funeral, and have left her to rot underground. Even from a spiritual standpoint, most religions would consider her soul to have left her remains by then."

"So, you think it is perfectly acceptable to dig her up and do whatever you want to her body?" John asked, incredulous at Sherlock calm demeanour. 

"Look, put aside what you witnessed today at the society. That was a brutal, disgusting display. True men of science are seeking understanding, and we can only get it through thorough knowledge of the human body. We seek to advance medicine, to prevent suffering and death at a young age. Dr. Blundell was scheduled to speak today about saving women who lose too much blood during delivery by transfusing blood from their husbands. He has saved lives with this procedure, young mothers who will live on to raise their children." Sherlock looked truly passionate in his arguments.

John got up, his thoughts and emotions mixed up. He went to the window to stare out at the wet street. Sherlock made some sense, and he could see his view, but the whole situation still bothered him.

He sighed, turning to look at the man sitting quietly. "If it is so beneficial to everyone, why are you sneaking around in the dead of night to do it, and renting a flat in that part of town? Perhaps it is a legal grey area, taking a body from a grave like that, but you aren't flaunting your actions." He took in a deep breath, feeling drained. Emotionally exhausted. "I don't know if I can continue living here, associating with you, knowing you are doing this."

Sherlock jumped up again, looking concerned. "John, please, please take some time and reconsider. I know this is a shock to you, but I want you to stay. You have come so far already..." His words died off as he saw they weren't softening John. "Please, give it a couple days, at the very least." 

John sighed, and got up. "Fine, Sherlock." He walked to the doorway. "I am going to my room now. I need time to think."

"But Mrs. Hudson will be serving supper soon." Sherlock protested.

Even though he had eaten very little today, the thought of food made his stomach roll again. "I'm not hungry." He left and walked slowly up to his room.

\---

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: John has only been at the house a few weeks, and they don't know each other that well yet. More about their backstories coming up in the next chapters, so please don't judge either of them harshly yet.... Thanks for reading, and for everyone who has left a kudo or comment. :)

-Dr. James Blundell: He graduated from the University of Edinburgh Medical School in 1813, and started giving lectures about physiology and midwifery in a London a year later. In 1818, he injected four ounces of a husband's blood into a woman who had haemorrhaged during childbirth, the world's first successful blood transfusion. (Further attempts by him were only successful half the time, since blood types were not identified until 1901 by the Austrian Karl Landsteiner).

-The Royal Society: This society was founded in 1660, and has the purpose of promoting and supporting science. Sir Isaak Newton was president of the society from 1703-1723. They have been providing scientific advice to government since the mid-eighteenth century. By the 1800s, it had about 600 members but only about 100 were contributing to its scientific journal, with many using the society for political connections instead. In 1830, reforms were made to who could be members based on their scientific achievements. Today, the society has 1600 members and is given £47 million a year by the government to dole out in grants to further scientific research.

-Scientist: This term was not coined until 1834. Before this, they referred to themselves as 'natural philosophers' or 'men of science'. 

-Anatomy: This was a hot topic in medicine and science during this era. London and Edinburgh had many schools offering anatomy courses and lectures. This was prior to the understanding of germ theory, and the nature of many diseases.

-Age of Enlightenment and Scientific Revolution: During the 1700's, there was an intellectual and philosophical movement which dominated the world of ideas in Europe. Reason was seen as the primary source of authority and legitimacy, and came to advance ideals like liberty, progress, tolerance, fraternity, constitutional government and separation of church and state. The scientific method of doing experiments grew out of this period; the drive to experience things firsthand and for the results to be replicated by others to be taken as true. _Sapere aude_ is a Latin phrase meaning 'Dare to Know' that captured the attitude of the time.

-Grave Robbing: In England at this time, grave robbing was considered to be stealing the personal effects or artifacts from a tomb or grave. Taking a corpse was considered 'body snatching', a misdemeanour in common law, not a felony, and therefore only punishable with a fine and imprisonment, rather than execution or transportation. It tended to be ignored by authorities.


	6. Chapter 6

John woke up later than normal again, feeling tired still, and knew his thoughts had kept him from sleeping well. 

Rolling onto his back, he looked out at the sunny, spring day. The sunshine and greenery seemed to mock his troubles. 

Things were so comfortable here. He had a wonderful bed to sleep in, hot baths, clean clothes and regular meals. The company of good people like Donovan, Mrs. Hudson and Molly. Knowing his days would be full of pleasant activities like reading, learning to ride, walks in pretty parks and music. 

He had adjusted easily to living this way the past month. Was he really so willing to give it all up for his principles? He could have another two months here, leave with cash in his pocket and a chance for a better future. If he left now, he would be lucky to have the clothes on his back. 

Would it really be so hard to ignore what Sherlock got up to in the dark? Was what Sherlock was doing truly all that bad, especially when compared to the crimes happening all over the city? Was it a victimless crime, or even truly a crime at all?

 _Sherlock_. John sighed and stared up at the ceiling as he considered the man he had been living with. Every day, he found himself looking at the man in wonder, uncovering a new facet that made him truly unique. Such a blend of knowledge from books, his education and his observations of the world, contrasted with his blindness of such obvious things like Donovan and Molly. The way he spurned the dictates of society so often, but still wore his new clothes with such ease. How he could be so disdainful towards Anderson, a rich man of his class, and yet treat his staff and John with such respect. The way his eyes glowed and sought John's when he was amused. 

Sighing, John felt no closer to knowing what to do next. He washed and dressed, thumping his way down the stairs, feeling in a surly mood. 

Sherlock eyes quickly scanned him as he entered the dining room, and he wisely only nodded at him, pouring him a coffee. John heaped jam onto some toast and buried himself in the newspapers as he ate.

The sound of a throat clearing made John lower his paper. He arched an eyebrow inquiringly.

"Um...I just wanted to remind you that we are going to the theatre this afternoon with Molly. Donovan will make sure you are dressed appropriately for it." Sherlock said quickly, toying with the edge of his napkin. 

John sighed, nodding. He had almost forgotten. It was to see a Shakespearean comedy, and the idea of sitting through it sounded akin to torture in his present state of mind. But it was all part of his training for the wager, now starting to do more outings into society to get comfortable with polite small talk and how to act in a variety of situations. 

"Fine. I will go for a walk and be ready when she arrives." John said softly, before abandoning the rest of his meal.

\---

"Have you ever read the play or seen it performed before?" Molly asked, likely sensing the tension between the two men and seeking to lighten it.

John looked away from the window of her coach, and smiled at the pretty young woman. She was dressed today in an aqua gown that set off her dark hair perfectly. "I'm not that familiar with Shakespeare. My schooling concentrated on basic reading, arithmetic and history."

"Well, 'Twelfth Night' is probably a good introduction to his work. It's a comedy about twins who are separated in a shipwreck, thinking the other has died." Molly's dark eyes held John's, talking earnestly, her love of the arts showing clearly.

Sherlock scoffed. "Shipwrecks and death. Sounds hilarious already."

Rolling her eyes at the brat, Molly continued. "Viola decides it's safer to dress as a man while she figures out what to do next, and becomes an attendant to the Duke Orsino."

"As if no one would notice that she's actually a woman in disguise." Sherlock scoffed again.

John almost chuckled at that comment, thinking of the years Donovan had worked for Sherlock without him noticing her true nature.

Molly ignored the interruption. "Orsino is in love with a noble lady, Olivia, and he sends Viola to woo Olivia for him."

"Do rich people still do things like that? Wouldn't the woman just think the rich guy was too lazy or not really interested if he can't bother to woo her himself?" John asked.

She looked a bit flustered by the question, and John felt bad for putting her on the spot. She wasn't that experienced with men. "I don't think it's done that way anymore. Anyways, Olivia falls for Viola, thinking she is a handsome young man."

John nodded, giving Molly a small smile. "And I bet Viola falls for Orsino, who can't love her back since he thinks she's a man. A strange little love triangle."

 _"The course of true love never did run smooth."_ Sherlock said softly, his tone not teasing for once.

Molly looked his way with a fond smile. "That's from 'A Midsummer Night's Dream', Sherlock. Don't confuse John."

John laughed lightly in agreement, before looking back out of his window at the passing scenery. _Too late._

\---

John found he enjoyed the play more than he expected he would. The players spoke their lines well, engaging the audience in their banter. John often heard Sherlock's laughter joining his own. 

They were in a private box, and Molly had insisted John sit in the middle since it was his first visit to the theatre. It was full of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen, every seat sold out. 

Whenever he glanced to his left to chat with Molly, it seemed her eyes were always directed at Sherlock, drinking in his profile as he enjoyed the play. Her love was painfully obvious to see.

He often felt Sherlock looking his way instead of towards the stage. Was he just watching to see if John was following and enjoying the production? Or was he thinking about their discussion last night as much as John was? It was hard feeling so at odds with the man he now considered his friend. 

\---

When they got back home, John went quickly to the stairs.

"John..." Sherlock's voice made him pause, and he reluctantly turned around. "You have hardly spoken to me all day. Would you come into the drawing room? We need to work this out."

They were soon sipping tea, and John stared moodily into his cup, not knowing what to say.

Sherlock set his cup down, and leaned forward. "Look, I know I have shocked you and you are still thinking of leaving, but I really want you to stay here."

"Because you want to win the wager." John sneered. 

"No, because I like having you here, John." Sherlock said simply, his green eyes holding his gaze, showing he meant it.

John was the first to look away, surprised at the vulnerability Sherlock was showing. He really did care what John thought of him. "I have enjoyed my stay here as well, but I can't erase what I saw, what I know."

Sherlock nodded slowly, assessing him. "I know you thinking I'm bending the law, or being unethical. It's against your nature. You are a man with a good character."

Scoffing, John got up and walked around the room. "I don't know about that, Sherlock. You know I have been a soldier for twenty years, but did you know how I first went into the army?"

Sherlock was watching him as he paced, seeing the tension in him. "I assumed it was one of the few careers available to you in your circumstances."

John stopped pacing to face Sherlock. "I was given the choice of the Army or Australia." 

He could see the realization dawning in those light green eyes. "What was your crime?"

"I was a thief." John said, lifting his chin slightly, still meeting Sherlock's eyes. 

Sherlock nodded slowly, and poured them more tea. The tension between them went down a little at John's admission, and he sat again. 

Eventually, Sherlock meet his gaze again. "I can see why you chose the Army." Many on the prison ships died before they even reached the penal colony, and even more died there, with all the dangerous animals and tropical diseases. 

John sipped his tea. "I could have just as easily been hanged for my crime, so I considered myself lucky. I swore to never break the law again."

"Never?" Sherlock asked. He had seen how poor and starving John had been a month ago. 

Straightening up, John shook his head. "No matter how desperate I get, I will never steal again. I learned the hard way how the system works, Sherlock. Over the years, I have seen others breaking the law, and I've always abhorred that."

"But surely there are situations were it's justified..." Sherlock started, but stopped when he saw the expression on John's face.

John sighed. "So many are poor and starving, Sherlock. If the laws say the rules can be bent for some, but not others, it becomes anarchy. Our society needs rules and order."

Sherlock nodded. It was like he was seeing deeper into John now, understanding him better. "So, you were reformed by your experiences, and being in the army."

"There is crime everywhere, but we have to keep it under control. It's what I want to do when I'm done here." John said, looking more like himself.

"Controlling crime?" Sherlock sounded skeptical.

John rolled his sore shoulder. "Yes, the injury has kept me from many types of work. I want to be a clerk with the Bow Street Office."

Sherlock could picture it. John read and wrote well, and seemed to be educated enough in arithmetic. The work in an office setting wouldn't be that physically demanding and he would probably earn enough to live comfortably. "Do you think you would like the work?"

John smiled, a genuine, authentic smile, and Sherlock's breath caught a little. It was good to see it after the last couple days of strain between them. "Yes. I've been doing some work as a thief taker and I've gotten to know a few people who work there. They are a good lot. Being cleaned up and having a letter from you will hopefully be enough for them to give me a position."

Sherlock chuckled. "The thief became a thief taker. You are working your way to becoming a magistrate." 

"I'll just be happy to have a regular job, and to be helping society somehow." John stated. 

Putting their cups back on the tray, Sherlock leaned back. "So, you are a thief taker...that's how you followed me so easily without my notice."

John nodded. "And it's why I was such a mess when we first met. I had been following a known thief, trying to catch him red-handed with stolen goods, and we had a bit of a scuffle." He shrugged. "I'm good at tracking people down, doing surveillance...but my shoulder is too weak to capture them usually."

Sherlock was quiet for a few moments, thinking. "Look, I want you to stay more than ever now, John. I want to give you a chance at your new life. You deserve it."

John sighed. "I'm still not sure, Sherlock." The activities he was involved with were likely not completely illegal. But they went against his own ethics, and if word got out, could smear his name as well, being associated with Sherlock. Ruin chances for a different future.

Sighing, Sherlock stood up. "I'll give you two things to consider overnight, and you can tell me what you decide in the morning."

He waited, and eventually John nodded.

"The first thing is that my 'work' depends on the weather. In a few weeks, I'll be stopping for the summer, so there is less risk to you then." Sherlock said, watching John closely.

Sherlock paused, and sighed. "The second thing...if you want, I can show you my work and explain it more. Help you understand what I do and why. Let you make an informed choice." 

He reached out a hand, and gave John's good shoulder a squeeze. With a half-smile, he said good night, and went upstairs.

John sat by the fire for a long time, thinking.

\---

\- Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: A little backstory on John... sorry about all the historical notes for this chapter! I found this stuff interesting & I hope you do too.

-Twelfth Night: William Shakespeare wrote the play around 1601, in the time of Queen Elizabeth I. Since the main character, Viola, dresses as a man, many consider this play as questioning gender issues and homosexuality.  
Additionally, during this time, men usually dressed as women to play the female roles. So, a male actor was playing the role of Viola, who is playing a man. It would have been interesting to see it back then.  
Movie tie-ins: 'She's The Man' (2006 fun modern version of the story with Amanda Bynes and Channing Tatum), 'Shakespeare In Love' (1998 Best Picture winner with Gwyneth Paltrow playing Viola who dresses as a man to act in a play & has affair with Shakespeare), and 'Victor/Victoria' (1983 musical with Julie Andrews as a male female impersonator).

-The Bloody Code: In 1810, it was stated in the House of Commons that no country on Earth had more offences punishable by death as the United Kingdom. Known as 'The Bloody Code', there were 220 crimes that could get you hanged. Reforms later made the death penalty discretionary for all crimes except murder and treason (1823), and abolished in 1998.

-Penal Colonies: After America became independent from Britain in 1783, prisoners could no longer be transported there. From 1788 to 1868, 162,000 convicts were transported to Australia instead. After 7 years, they were given their freedom, and most settled there. Around 20% of modern Australians are descended from transported convicts.

-Army: Duke of Wellington (who led the victorious Battle of Waterloo and was later Prime Minister) said the army "...is composed of the scum of the earth — the mere scum of the earth. It is only wonderful that we should be able to make so much out of them afterwards." The British army did not have conscription during the Napoleonic Wars, but did give some convicts the choice between being transported to Australia or joining the army for life. 

-Bow Street Runners: Formed in 1749 by magistrate Henry Fielding (also author of the great book, Tom Jones: A Foundling), it is said to be London's first police force. Originally it had six men apprehending offenders and taking them to Bow Street for examination and commitment to trial. It grew from there, and eventually even had office clerks and assistants to collect and record information about offences and offenders, therefore creating a sort of criminal database for future investigations. By the 1800's, there were many other similar offices all over London with their own paid staff of magistrates, constables, patrols and watchmen. Metropolitan Police (Scotland Yard) was formed in 1829.

-Thief Taker: In England, thief takers were private individuals hired by victims of crime to capture criminals or retrieve stolen goods. Prior to widespread police forces, the capture, prosecution and provision of evidence for the conviction of serious offenders in trials were at the expense of the victim.


	7. Chapter 7

John felt like he had stepped into the aftermath of a hurricane. It was hard to make out where the desk and other office furniture were amongst the piles of books, boxes full of papers, and dusty objects of all shapes and sizes. _Was that a human skull in the bookcase?_

"Come, make yourself comfortable, John." Sherlock murmured as he shifted a box off a chair and sat down, stretching his long legs out in front of him. He looked at home here, in this private study that even Mrs. Hudson was banned from entering. His refuge. “Please excuse the mess. I could say it is only like this because we cleared out the things from your bedroom, but it frankly didn’t look that much different before.” 

Chuckling lightly, John moved some books and unearthed another chair. He sat down, and looked expectantly towards Sherlock. "Well, I'm here. You promised me an explanation." He had thought about it all night, and knew he couldn't leave without hearing Sherlock out. His own curious nature wouldn't let him. Somehow, he had to connect the man he had come to know as a friend with the man he became at night. 

The taller man steepled his fingers below his chin, looking at John consideringly. He seemed to make up his mind after a couple minutes, nodding to himself as he got up and pulled open some drawers, searching through the contents. He returned with a battered file folder, thick with jagged scraps of paper sticking out of it messily.

Placing it on his lap, he flipped through it quickly, and passed a paper to John. Giving his host a furrowed brow, John took it and read the piece. It was a newspaper article about a college student in Vermont who had died of consumption two years ago. His father was worried about his family’s health, so later had his son exhumed, and burned the remains of his heart in the blacksmith's forge. 

John finished it quickly, and gave Sherlock a questioning look, but got handed another scrap of paper. It was an advert championing a new product, a 'Life-Preserving Coffin', with features like access to pure air, and springs and levers that would make the coffin lid fly open with the slightest motion of the ‘inmate’. John gave a small scoff at it, and laid the papers on the coffee table.

Sherlock was silently passing him an open book next, and John let out an exasperated sigh as he took it. Glancing over the page, he shook his head and passed it back. "I can't read French, Sherlock. Would you stop giving me things to read, and just talk to me?"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock snatched the book back. "Fine, I'll translate for you." His light eyes skimmed the page to find the right passage. _"These vampires were corpses, who went out of their graves at night to suck the blood of the living, either at their throats or stomachs, after which they returned to their cemeteries. The persons so sucked waned, grew pale, and fell into consumption; while the sucking corpses grew fat, got rosy, and enjoyed an excellent appetite. It was in Poland, Hungary, Silesia, Moravia, Austria, and Lorraine, that the dead made this good cheer."_

John enjoyed hearing Sherlock's deep voice as he read, only pausing occasionally to search for the correct English word. He gave his friend a half-smile when he closed the book. "Vampires, and other silly superstitions? Those are just folk tales, as ridiculous as the witch trials during the Dark Ages."

Sherlock nodded, watching John closely. "Yet a college student was dug up relatively recently by his family." He glanced down at the book he still held, brushing his fingers lightly over the cover. "This book by Voltaire, one of the greatest thinkers of the last century, was published only fifty years ago."

He picked up a recent magazine. "This has a short story by Lord Byron in it, called _'The Vampyre'."_ Shrugging, he put everything down on the coffee table. "What does all this have in common, John?"

Lifting his eyebrows slightly, he looked down at the thick file probably filled with many other examples Sherlock had collected, and back at the newspaper article. "There were some mentions of consumption. It's a horrible disease. Perhaps people just feel helpless as it takes more members of their family, and they resort to trying anything to stop it. It’s easier to believe it’s an evil spirit of some sort they can fight, than a disease that randomly takes people."

"Yes, there is the fear of disease there, certainly." Sherlock said, his green gaze holding John's. "Do you see the other link in all this?"

John thought for a moment, biting his lip. Usually, in their discussions of the books John was reading, Sherlock challenged him like this, made him look closer, searching for deeper meaning. John liked it, and often found the answers came to him on reflection of the material. It made him feel like he was meeting Sherlock's intelligence in many areas, even though he didn't have as much formal education. 

An answer came to him, and he met Sherlock's watchful gaze confidently. "Death. Fear of death and the unknown."

He felt good when Sherlock nodded in approval. "Exactly. In the cases I have collected, I have similar descriptions of other suspected vampires that are exhumed from many countries. They appear plump and well fed. They don't show signs of decomposition."

John furrowed his brow. "How does the coffin with all the gadgets fit into this?" He waved a hand at the advert.

"There are a few cases of people being buried prematurely, and that shows that people are confused if death has occurred. There needs to be more understanding of the body's processes in the first few hours of death to distinguish it from a coma." Sherlock explained, patient as he always was with John's questions.

He stood, and picked up a well-worn booklet from his desk. "In the last hundred years or so, there has been a lot of debate over whether vampires exist by respected, educated men. I found the first documented evidence, the case that convinced Voltaire and so many others. I'll give you the facts, and we'll see what conclusions you come up with."

John settled back in his chair, ready to listen.

"In the fall and winter of 1731, a number of Serbian people in one village began dying mysteriously. The Austrian government sent out an Imperial Infectious Disease Specialist to investigate. He visited December 12th to interview the villagers and examine corpses, but determined there was no sign of infectious disease. His report noted that the villagers thought the deaths were from vampires, and that exhumed suspected vampires showed no sign of decomposition when bodies buried later had decomposed." Sherlock's tone was neutral.

John furrowed his brow. "So, it was strange, but no suspicious bite marks or anything that conclusive." 

Sherlock nodded, looking down at the booklet quickly. "A bigger team came back January 7th to investigate it further. There was a special military detachment of officers and troops, along with two medical officers, a field surgeon and the regimental surgeon, Johann Flückinger."

"They must have taken it seriously to send out so many." John thought back on his army years. The British army had been allied with Austria against Napoleon's forces occasionally.

Sherlock continued. "The villagers were interviewed again, and autopsies were conducted on 13 suspected vampires. The 14th suspect had already been staked and burned before they arrived. Flückinger wrote up the official report of their findings on January 26th, and it was signed by the medical officers, and two other officers on the mission."

Intrigued, John leaned forward. "What did the report say?" 

Sherlock gave a small smile at John's interest. He flipped the booklet open to a marked page. "Here's an example of one autopsy. The body was found to be complete and undecayed. Fresh blood had flowed from his eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. His shirt, the covering and the coffin were completely bloody. The old nails and skin of his hands and feet had fallen off, and new ones had grown." He shrugged. "They determined that he was a true vampire from this, and when they drove a stake through his heart, he let out an audible groan and bled profusely."

John shook his head. "It sounds ridiculous, but coming from trained surgeons, how can you doubt it?"

"10 of the 13 bodies were similar, appearing undecayed even though they had been dead for months. Their heads were cut off by local gypsies, burned with their bodies, and the ashes thrown into the river Morava." Sherlock finished, closing the booklet. 

He held out the booklet to John, the German title _'Visum Et Repertum'_ showing on the simple cover. "Flückinger published the report, called _'Seen and Discovered',_ and it got wide distribution all over Europe. His father, a doctor in Vienna, also sent the case to a prominent weekly medical journal."

John nodded. "No wonder it has become so pervasive in the culture now." 

Sherlock's green eyes were alight with interest. "I want your opinion on this, as a well-traveled man with military experience and wanting a career in law enforcement. Do you think the investigation sufficient to prove the existence of vampires?"

John considered all that Sherlock had told him. "Well, I don't think there is enough information to conclude that. They could have died due to an unusual disease that gave them those symptoms, somehow delayed decomposition. Or perhaps there were other factors at play."

The taller man looked pleased with his comments. "My thinking exactly. Tell me, if you don't find it too distasteful, were you in much contact with the dead after battles?"

John sighed, thinking back on his many years in the army. "Depressingly frequently. Whenever possible, we cleared our injured and dead from the grounds. The injured went to field hospitals; the dead were accounted for, and stripped. Depending on the conditions, we either dug mass graves or burned the bodies. Horses were always burned. They were too large to bury."

"And you did it quickly as possible, to prevent the spread of disease." Sherlock added, nodding in understanding. "You are probably more familiar with how bodies look after death than most people are. You have seen them in rigor mortis, or seen how the body bloats up."

Images flashed through John's mind. Lifting bodies that were stiff and unbending, and others that were floppy. Ones that had distended stomachs, hard with gases. Maggots, blowflies, crows swarming around. The ground wet with blood and other fluids. It was grisly work, but necessary. 

He nodded at Sherlock. "It was worse in hot countries; they decayed faster. Dry, colder places weren't as bad."

"Exactly!" Sherlock sat forward in his chair. "You have seen firsthand how much different bodies can look as they decompose, depending on the environment. Factors like the temperature, how dry it was, the presence of scavengers. Being exposed to the elements, or more protected. Plus, the size and weight of a person could affect things."

John nodded. "So, you think the observations in the report can be explained by natural processes, not supernatural forces."

Sherlock seemed pleased. "Yes, that is what I am trying to establish. I am studying the normal decomposition of humans. Looking at a variety of people to see how they differ. Then, I will vary external factors, see how that effects everything."

Shifting back in his chair, John looked at Sherlock. “I can see you would need many fresh bodies to study this effectively. Do you feel this idle curiosity of yours really justifies disturbing the sanctity of so many graves?”

"I think you need to see more to be convinced." Sherlock didn't seem disturbed that John was challenging him. He jumped up, and motioned John to follow him. 

\---

The streets were wet as a steady rain fell. It made the poor neighbourhood look even darker and more mysterious as John followed Sherlock down the steps to the basement flat. 

Sherlock paused after unlocking the door. "John, please don't disturb anything."

Scoffing, John nudged Sherlock to step inside, getting impatient with the rain soaking through his coat. Only a month away from the streets, and he was feeling cold and uncomfortable from this little fall of rain. He was getting soft. "Don't worry, Sherlock. I won't touch your bodies." 

The interior was quite dark, so John stayed near the closed door as Sherlock lit a kerosene lamp. It was a small, simple space. A large wooden worktable with two chairs was in the center of the room, a tall shelf with various pieces of equipment, and a single bed were the only pieces of furniture.

"Do you sleep here?" John stepped towards Sherlock, looking around as he went. 

Shrugging, Sherlock picked up a notebook. "Sometimes I am at a critical phase in my research. It is easier to stay here for a day or two."

John looked around. "There is no kitchen or privy." 

"I don't eat much when I'm working, but there is a good bakery a block from here. There's a chamber pot and a pump nearby for water. Surely simple conditions like this aren't that strange to you." Sherlock said as he flipped to a blank page. 

Chuckling, John stepped closer. "No, but I'm surprised to see you in a place like this."

Sherlock lit another lamp, giving the room more uniform illumination. "I apologize for the chill in here. For the work, I try to keep it as cold as possible."

Glancing at the fireplace, John wasn't surprised to see it was empty of coals. He kept his coat on.

"Can you help me?" Sherlock had moved to a dark corner, near the wall. 

John nodded, and moved closer. There was a lump under an oilcloth, and he realized it must be the body. He took one end of the stretcher, and they hoisted her onto the table.

Sherlock pulled back the oilcloth, looking down at the pale, naked woman critically. He lifted her arm, and it was not stiff. "The rigor mortis period is over now." He looked her over analytically, nodding to himself. "She has been dead about two days, and doesn't show many signs of decay yet."

"Do you perform autopsies usually?" John was relieved the body was intact. He didn't know if he could handle a repeat of the gory scene like at the Academy.

Sherlock met his eyes, and nodded. "For now, I'll document her decomposition. I'm watching for natural processes that appeared in the bodies people claimed made them appear to be vampires." He picked up her hand, turning it towards John. "People claim the hair, nails and teeth grow in vampires, but it only appears so since the flesh retracts. You have seen how bodies bloat up with gas on the battlefield. This makes them look plump, well-fed."

"And the mentions of the blood?" John searched his memory for the other details of the report. 

Sherlock gave him an approving look. "Exactly! It appears that another natural process is the blood eventually leaking out, from the mouth mostly. The building pressure from the gas can even push it from the nose, ears, and eyes. It could be also mixed with other body fluids, making it seem copious."

He made notes in his book, concentrating fully on his task. 

John watched as he examined the body carefully, documenting changes since his last visit. He was thorough, his eyes taking in every detail. Eventually he seemed satisfied, pulling the oilcloth back over her.

They replaced the stretcher on the floor. Sherlock motioned to another dark shape, and John realized it was a simple pine casket. They lifted it onto the table, using the handles on the sides.

Sherlock pulled the snug lid off, and John held his breath as the coffin was opened. Inside was a naked older man. He could tell the man had been dead longer than the woman. There were signs of bloody fluids escaping his mouth and nose. His body was puffed up a little, the abdomen distended slightly. 

"This man has been dead 35 days." Sherlock said softly, watching John's reaction to the body. "He hasn't decomposed much, aside from the blood on his face, and looking fatter."

John gave Sherlock a surprised look. "35 days? I would have said 5 days or less!"

Sherlock gave a satisfied nod. "Like the woman, he was buried quickly. The cold of the ground and this flat have delayed the process."

Something jogged his memory. "Weren't those investigations by the Austrian surgeons done in December and January? No wonder the corpses still looked fresh."

"That's my hypothesis as well." Sherlock took notes on the man, and soon they were lowering his coffin back to the floor. “10 of the 13 bodies appeared undecayed, so my theory is that the cold weather made them decay slower than normal. I am curious why 3 of them decomposed faster than the rest.” 

John was considering everything as they washed their hands in a washbasin. Sherlock led them out of the flat, and locked up.

"That didn't take too long. Why are you away for so many hours every night?" John asked. 

Sherlock shrugged. "I walk a lot to think. I scope out cemeteries for recent graves when I need another body. I explore the area to know the route of the night watchmen and others, to plot the path we take with our cart to avoid attention.” 

Back at the house, they made tea and took it to the study. John was still working through everything he had learned about Sherlock tonight. "So, a report that is almost 90 years old captured your attention. You seek to disprove the claim that vampires are real by showing the conditions of the bodies were just due to natural processes after death."

"And to show that even bodies in the same graveyard will decay at different rates. What conditions could have produced those results?" Sherlock stretched his legs out on the ottoman, resting his teacup on his thigh. 

John nodded in understanding. "So, perhaps things like the depth of the graves varied, or some areas were damper than others. Also, the bodies had a lot of variation."

Sherlock opened the booklet again. “The dead ranged in age from newborns to a woman in her sixties. Some were sick for months before dying, some only days.” He shrugged, looking a little tired.

“So, you will study this until you feel satisfied with the answers? How long will this take? Will you share the information with others?” John sipped his tea, finally feeling a bit warmer from the fire and the beverage.

The tall man stared into the fire, the low light making his cheekbones even more prominent. “I will take it in stages, sharing my results as I feel confident with them.” 

John thought about it. There were so many things that could affect the results. “Surely that would take many, many bodies to study. Many years of research.”

“Good research can’t be rushed. Also, I mentioned that I can’t work with bodies in the summer. They simply decay too fast, and it’s too risky trying to obtain and dispose of bodies more frequently.” Sherlock shrugged. 

“What will you do during the summer months?” John set down his empty cup, feeling a little tired now.

Sherlock gazed at him, his expression hard to read. “Well, hopefully this summer I will be occupied with getting you ready for Almack's. That is, if you honor me by staying.” 

John’s breath caught, holding Sherlock’s light green eyes with his own. Here was the moment for his decision. Now that he understood Sherlock better, could he stay?

Internally, his conscience argued both sides. Sherlock did his work out of his own curiosity mostly, wanting to satisfy questions he had. But he intended to share his results, which would increase the understanding of the human body within the science community. He was careful and attentive to detail, and John had no doubt his research would be highly regarded. Was the eventual good that could come out of his work enough to balance the questionable ethics of body snatching?

Sherlock must have seen the struggle in his expression. He reached over, placing a hand lightly on John’s forearm. “Would it make any difference if I said I won’t take any more bodies from graves while you are staying with me? I will simply complete my work with the two I currently have at the flat in the next week or so, and I won’t work on more bodies until October.” 

Blinking slowly at the offer, John thought about it. It would reduce the risk of Sherlock’s work being discovered while John was staying at the house. If the bodies from the flat were gone soon, the risk would be minimal. He was only going to be at Sherlock’s two more months, and it wouldn’t matter what Sherlock did in the fall. 

Letting out a breath, he nodded firmly at Sherlock, and could see the relief apparent in the younger man’s eyes. It really meant something to him that John was staying, and that sent a warm feeling through him. He felt even more aware of the man sitting so close, his large hand still resting on his arm. Their gaze held, and John couldn’t look away. 

Finally, he glanced back to the fire, clearing his throat. “Um, yes. You complete your work in the next week, and then we can both focus fully on winning this silly bet. I’m sure you will be happy when it’s all over and you can go back to your normal life.” 

Sherlock pulled his hand away, and gave a small, mysterious smile. “I’m not too sure of that, John. I’ve enjoyed your company, and sharing my world with you.”

John didn’t know how to reply. The softly spoken words sunk in, warming him further. He had accepted this strange situation, thinking only of getting a chance at a better future. He had never expected to connect so much with his host. “Um, I’ve liked being here as well, Sherlock. Loved reading and discussing great books with you, debating the ideas, even learning to ride.”

Standing up, Sherlock waited until John followed his action. “Well, I think your progress deserves a reward. When my work is done, how about we spend a week at the country estate? Mycroft is staying in town for the season, so we will have the place to ourselves.”

“Your family’s estate?” John imagined a mansion with a hundred rooms and acres of manicured gardens surrounding it, and instantly felt intimidated at the idea of going there.

Sherlock must have read his expression again. He patted John’s shoulder comfortingly. “Everyone is in London for months, so we won’t have to socialize with any of the gentry of the area. I’d like to show you what gentlemen do in the country, as part of your training. We can work on your riding skills, that type of thing.”

Put that way, it sounded like a nice break from being in the city. John smiled. “Alright then. Let’s go there soon.” 

\---

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: Sorry it took a while to write this chapter. I wanted to get a lot of information across, but didn’t want to bog you down with it. lol. Thanks for bearing with me. The next chapter will be much fluffier. 

-Consumption: This is the old name for Tuberculosis (TB), a highly infectious disease that generally affects the lungs, resulting in a chronic cough, coughing up blood, night sweats and weight loss. If untreated, it kills about half the people infected. It is spread by coughing, and unpasteurized milk (pasteurization was developed after 1864). TB reached its peak in Europe in the 1800's, and was the cause of a quarter of the deaths at the time.  
It was called 'consumption' due to the weight loss that gradually weakened the infected. Folklore attributed this to a dead person becoming a vampire and slowly feeding off their family members until they died.  
The bacteria that causes TB wasn't identified until 1882, and the first successful immunizations for it were in 1906. Currently, a third of the world's population is infected with it, and 1.5 million die of it each year, (95% of the which are in developing countries). 

-Balkan Vampires: This area of Eastern Europe was under the control of the Ottoman Empire until the Austrians took it over in 1718. Folklore about vampires was common in the region. The documented accounts by Austrian officials in 1732 created a sensation across Europe, with many newspaper articles and books on the topic, creating a hysteria referred to as the "18th-Century Vampire Controversy". This went on for a generation, with the superstition spreading to rural areas, and epidemics of 'vampire attacks' that led to bodies being exhumed and sometimes staked. In 1755, the Austrian Empress had her personal physician investigate, and when he concluded vampires don't exist, she passed laws prohibiting the opening of graves and desecration of bodies in her realm. 

-Vampires 1746: A well-respected Benedictine monk, Augustus Calmet, did his own research and published his findings on the occult ('Treatise on the Apparitions of Spirits and on Vampires or Revenants of Hungary, Moravia, et al.') in 1746, being inconclusive on if vampires existed or not. 

-Voltaire: This is the pen name of Francois-Marie Arouet (1694-1778), the French Enlightenment writer, historian and philosopher famous for attacks on the Catholic Church, his advocacy of freedom of religion and speech, and the separation of church and state. In 1764, Voltaire published 'Dictionnaire Philosophique' with the passage Sherlock read out, likely heavily influenced by Calmet's Treatise. 

-'The Vampyre': This short story was originally published in a monthly magazine April 1819, attributing the author as Lord Byron (the infamous English poet). It was actually written by his doctor and friend John Polidori. They were staying in a villa by Lake Geneva in the summer of 1816, and were visited by Percy Bysshe Shelley and Mary Shelley. It was very cold and rainy summer, resulting in this vacationing group spending their time mostly indoors. Many said it was a 'Year Without Summer', since it was unseasonably cold due to volcanic ash in the atmosphere from a major eruption the previous year in Indonesia. To amuse themselves, they told each other ghost stories, and then wrote their own. As a result of this, Mary Shelley published _'Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus'_ January 1, 1818, and Dr. Polidori published _'The Vampyre'_ a year later. It was the first published fiction about vampires and had a profound effect on later works, including Bram Stoker's _'Dracula',_ (1897). 

-American Vampires: Frederick Ransom was a college student who died of tuberculosis in February 1817. His father later exhumed his body, and had his heart burned at the blacksmith's forge, as a way to prevent Frederick from attacking other family members. Unfortunately, most of his family eventually died due to TB as well. Many other families in New England (Rhode Island, Vermont, Connecticut, etc) were also doing this type of ritual, with Mercy Brown in 1892 being another famous case. 

-Dead after battles: As an example, the Battle of Waterloo (1815) had 73,000 French fighting 118,000 Coalition Allies (Brits, Prussians, etc). By the end of the battle, the casualties were around 41,000 French and 24,000 Allies (killed, wounded and missing). Imagine dealing with all the injured and dead. 

-Safety Coffins: Lack of understanding of decomposition and death lead to a fear that some were being buried alive around this time. The market responded to this fear by offering 'safety coffins' with various types of gadgets the person could use to signal they were alive if they woke up, like a string attached to a bell above ground. This fear may be partially why some cultures have a 'Wake' after a family member dies. The family would wash and dress the dead person, lay them out in the best coffin they could afford, and have family members stay with the body for a few days before burial. It was hoped the person would wake up during this time, if they were in a deep coma or something, and prevent a premature burial. Embalming and funeral homes were uncommon at this time. 

-1732 Serbian Vampires: Different accounts vary details of the stories slightly. For example, some say 13 bodies exhumed, others say 40 were. I would have liked to read the actual report from Flückinger, but couldn't find an English translation. Here’s one article about it from Scientific American [here.](https://blogs.scientificamerican.com/primate-diaries/a-natural-history-of-vampires/).


	8. Chapter 8

John breathed deeply, pulling out his canteen and taking a long sip of water as he surveyed the rolling hills around him. The sunlight made him squint, but he enjoyed the warmth against his skin. It had been a long, wet winter. He felt happier, just being in this open green space.

There was a sound of heavy breathing behind him, and he chuckled as he turned, watching as Sherlock finally made it to the top of the hill. His normally pale complexion was flushed from the exertion, and he had stripped off his coat, the garment folded over his arm. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, his white shirt untucked, and his collar undone. John had never seen him looking so rumpled before.

"Oh, quit your smirking." Sherlock growled with a glare, holding his hand out imperiously for the canteen.

Wisely holding his tongue, John passed over the water, watching as Sherlock took a long pull. He jumped and grabbed it when Sherlock lifted it higher. "Oh no you don't! We need that water for drinking."

Sherlock pouted like a toddler denied candy. "But I'm so hot, John."

Trying not to grin in response, John was reminded of many new recruits he'd known over the years. The first days of marching soon showed the city boys from the farm boys. Showed which were the squeaky wheels and the ones who kept a stiff upper lip under harder conditions. Sherlock was proving to be a bit of a grump.

He looked down at the fields below. "Is there a river or lake we could swim in? Cool off?"

Sherlock brightened up at the idea. "Brilliant, John! Yes, just in that area. Mycroft and I swam there often." He pointed to a copse thick with trees.

"After we eat, alright?" John sat down, leaning his back against a large boulder, and pulling the food the cook had given them out of his pack. He passed some bread and cheese to Sherlock once he had settled down beside him.

They ate in companionable silence, looking out over the scenic vista. Everything was the bright green of early spring, many flowering trees heavy with blooms, making the air fragrant. 

John followed the glide of a hawk through the air, catching his breath when it folded its wings to descend rapidly, talons extended. Soon, it was beating its wings to regain height, a rodent within its grasp.

"You seem to be at peace out here, more than in the city." Sherlock commented, his eyes on his face. 

John shrugged. "I grew up in the city, but I've spent so many years in the army, often outdoors for months at a time. It feels good to be somewhere so quiet."

"Funny. It's the opposite for me. I grew up here, running around these fields and hiding in the bushes. But I moved away for school and have mostly been in cities since then." Sherlock stretched his legs out, looking more himself despite his untidy clothes. His skin wasn't flushed anymore.

John smiled at his friend. "Would you like living out here again if something, God forbid, happened to Mycroft and you inherit all this?" 

Making a face of disgust, Sherlock had John chuckling. "Sheesh, don't say that! I would have to marry and produce heirs, get involved in politics and all sorts of other awful obligations. I would hardly have a moment to myself."

"Don't you ever want to marry? Forgive me if this is a bit forward, but I know Molly would be quite keen. You get along well with her and she's from a good family." John finally was asking the question that had plagued him for weeks.

Sherlock eyed him with an arched eyebrow. "Hmmmm...." His low hum sent a zing of awareness along John's spine. "Are you acting like Viola in that play we saw? Wooing me for Molly?"

John laughed at the thought. "Hardly. And remember, it didn't work too well in the play. Olivia fell in love with Viola instead of the Duke she was wooing her for."

The look he got in response was pretty intense, and John shifted, pulling out apples from his pack for them. "Come on, answer my question. Are you seriously thinking of never marrying?"

Taking a big bite of his apple, Sherlock draped his arm over his bent knee, looking out over the landscape in thought. "Marry a woman?"

Rolling his eyes at the way Sherlock was avoiding giving an answer, John sighed. "Well, you can hardly marry a man." Finishing his apple, he threw the core hard, feeling pleased at the distance it went before it dropped. He looked back at Sherlock, a thought occurring to him. Was he a man who only liked men?

"Must I marry at all?" Sherlock smirked, obviously enjoying being evasive. 

John sat up, his legs crossed. "No, it's not mandatory. But haven't you ever felt a deeper connection with someone, that spark...?"

Sherlock scrunched his lips together, shrugging. "Well, certainly never around Molly. She's too much like a little sister to think of that way. I don't know that many other women that well."

Daringly, John pressed on. "And has there been any men...?" Why was he even asking this? Just curiosity? He found he was holding his breath, waiting for Sherlock's response.

"Men?" Sherlock's eyebrows rose slightly, but he paused, giving it some consideration before shaking his head. "No 'sparks'. Not that I've noticed. But the only man I've been around much in recent years is Donovan."

John almost laughed at that, and stood up to avoid Sherlock's gaze. "Come on, let's go for that swim."

\---

"Sherlock!" John wiped away the drops of water from his face, squinting up at the tall berk. 

Giving his head another shake, he sent more water dripping down onto John before lying down beside him on their discarded clothes. "Ah, the sun feels good."

Grinning at his friend stretched out over the grass, John bunched his trousers under his head to be a better pillow. They were both only wearing their knee-length drawers, damp from their swim, the afternoon sun drying their hair and skin.

"Being out here makes me miss sleeping under the stars." John closed his eyes, feeling sleepy from all the exercise. 

They had arrived three days ago, and he had enjoyed the relaxed pace. Breakfast was around 10 am, and then they often went for a ride around the grounds. John was feeling more confident on horses everyday. Sherlock showed him various country amusements, like playing billiards, tennis, and lawn bowling. They changed for a late supper, drinking brandy and smoking cheroots afterwards. Sherlock was determined John experience the normal activities of a house party in the country. 

Rolling onto his side, Sherlock looked over at John. "I've never slept outside."

John nodded. "We should do it." Sherlock had shown him so many things in the last weeks. Here was a chance to show him something in return. "We could even cook supper over a fire."

Looking intrigued, Sherlock sat up. "Do we need a lot of supplies? Maybe we should take the horses, so we can get further away from the house."

Making a face, John shook his head. "We don't need much for just one night. I'd prefer to walk."

Sherlock gave him a long look. "You haven't completely gotten over your old fear of horses, have you? Even though your riding is getting better."

Sighing, John shook his head. "I was only 16 when I joined the army, confused and not knowing anyone, first time away from home. Then suddenly I'm in another country and being led into battle. Even though I had some training, fighting is completely different. It's so loud, overwhelming, and I didn't know what I should be doing most of the time. Things didn't go well..." He closed his eyes remembering, his heart pounding in fright at the shooting guns surrounding him. "I got too far away from my regiment and there was suddenly this crazy Frenchman on a horse trying to chop my head off with his saber." 

He shuddered at the memory. "I got away, but it left me terrified of the horses, the cavalry, after that. I think I shoved all my fears about everything there, having to deal with the rest, but able to keep away from the dragoons usually."

Perhaps realizing John needed a distraction, Sherlock stood up. "OK, let's head back to the house and pack up our supplies for the night. We'll need to hike out again and set up camp before it gets dark." 

Glad for the excuse, John got up and dressed. He felt a surge of gratitude that Sherlock hadn't teased him about his fear.

\---

"Cassiopeia." Sherlock said, sounding a little drunk.

John followed the direction of his arm. "Right, that's the one that looks like a 'W'."

Sherlock pointed a little further over. "Can you see that red star? It's Betelgeuse. The left shoulder of Orion."

Taking another swig from the bottle, John giggled softly. "I bet you can't say that name three times fast."

Sherlock grinned, grabbing the bottle and taking a long swig from it. "Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse!" The last word was slightly slurred, and they both ended up laughing hard.

Taking the bottle back, John shoved the cork on. "I think we've had enough." He placed it beside his pack, and snuggled under his blanket. 

"This was a good idea, John." Sherlock said, his voice fading a bit.

Smiling in the darkness, John nodded in agreement. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"'Night." The reply was mumbled, and John was pretty sure Sherlock had fallen asleep. He was almost there himself as well.

They were on soft grass, a few trees nearby. There was only a tiny crescent moon, so the stars were particularly bright tonight. John soaked in the beautiful vision, tracing his eyes over the familiar patterns of light. The night was mild, barely any breeze at all.

It had been a fun evening. Sherlock collected wood while John started a fire. By the time he was back, John was suspending a chicken over the flames with sticks. The food was simple but tasty, and they had worked up a good appetite today. Something about eating outdoors made the meal even better.

The cook had also given them a bottle of whiskey, and they passed it back and forth as the sky darkened, giving them a beautiful show of a vibrant sunset and then the stars appearing one by one. John often found himself glancing over at his friend to see his reactions. 

Eyes getting heavy, John pulled his blanket into a better position, the soft sounds of Sherlock breathing nearby reminding him of the first nights in his house, and sharing that big bed.

\---

A few hours later, John awoke and swore softly. It was starting to drizzle, and it felt like it could get worse, a wind picking up. It was still completely dark, still hours until sunrise. 

Scrambling to stand, he grabbed his blanket and some rope. Using a few longer sticks in their woodpile, he soon fashioned a simple blanket tent near the trees and moved their gear into it. He put the firewood under a tree to keep it dry, and knelt down beside Sherlock.

He was still sleeping soundly, and John put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a little shake. "Sherlock, wake up. It's raining and we need to move to the tent."

The only response was a complaining groan, and Sherlock burrowing deeper into his covers. Rolling his eyes, John repeated the words, shaking his shoulder harder.

The urgency in his tone must have finally gotten through, as Sherlock blinked up at him with sleepy eyes.

"Come on, come on." John led his friend into the tent and crawled in with him. They had to lie on the bare grass, sharing Sherlock's blanket, since John's was the tent now. It took a bit of shuffling until they had everything covered up, huddled together and listening to rain pattering above their heads.

"It's cold, John." Sherlock said, a shiver shaking him from head to foot. 

With a soft swear, John shifted again, spooning Sherlock and wrapping them tightly in the blanket. It had been his idea to sleep outside; it was his responsibility to make sure Sherlock was warm enough.

Sherlock relaxed as their shared body heat built up under their blanket. 

\---

John woke up nestled against Sherlock's back, his arm wrapped around his waist. He could tell by the light outside that it was barely after sunrise. The rain had stopped, with only occasional big drops falling from the leaves above and hitting the damp tent. There were a couple less taunt areas of the blanket where the rain collected and dripped lazily. 

Sherlock was still sleeping soundly, quiet and still in John's arms. He didn't snore, his breathing slow and easy. John, being shorter, had his face close to his shoulder, only the thin material of his white shirt covering it. Sherlock's dark curls were a mess against the pack they were using as a pillow. 

It had been a long time since John had woken up so close to someone. In the army, he slept in tents crowded with a few others, but never in contact unless it was extremely cold. They had individual blankets and respected their scant inches of space. The few sexual encounters he had with women in recent years were quick, and never involved the luxury of sharing a bed to sleep afterwards. 

Rather than wanting to pull away, he wanted to nuzzle in. Was it just for warmth, and to feel close to someone, anyone? Had he missed just holding someone? Or was it because it was Sherlock, the man he grew to like more each day?

Smiling to himself, he thought back on the last few weeks. Sherlock often made him laugh at his rude comments, often grumbling as he read the newspaper and calling most of the upper crust idiots. His brisk exterior hid a man of deep caring, revealed by the fond way he had with Mrs. Hudson, Donovan and Billy, and his brotherly teasing of Molly and Mycroft. 

His passion really came through the most when he discussed science and ideas. The debates with John got intense at times, but he never took it personally, encouraging John to explore issues, to question everything. He respected John's views, and that, more than anything, made John want to be in his company as much as possible. 

John felt when Sherlock woke up, his slight stiffening as he took in where he was and then relaxing again. John was holding his breath, wondering if he should move away, give the taller man some space.

He was saved from making the decision by Sherlock shifting, rolling on to his back, and looking over at John. His eyes were alert and bright as they caught and held John's. He tried to read the emotions of those light green eyes, drawn in, feeling the silence thrumming between them like it was a living thing. 

Sherlock's eyes dipped, falling to John's mouth, the only warning he gave before he murmured _"Sapere aude."_ He leaned in, his lips pressing against John's. A firm kiss.

John's heart was pounding at the contact. The initial surprise turned into something else when Sherlock didn't pull away. A simple word popped into John's thoughts.

_Yes._

He found himself returning the kiss, pushing closer, deepening it. 

When they both pulled back to catch their breath, John found himself staring into Sherlock's eyes, still trying to read them.

He opened his mouth, trying to say something, anything, but not sure what. "Um....I..."

Sherlock looked down to break their gaze, and then threw off the blanket to leave their makeshift tent. John could hear him walking away quickly.

 _What had that been?_ Sherlock kissing him? John kissing him back? 

Sherlock had said that Latin phrase... _Dare to Know._ Was that all it was to Sherlock? A test? A test of what? To see what it would feel like to kiss? To kiss a man, or to kiss John? Was it just Sherlock seeking an experience out of pure curiosity, or did it mean something, anything to him?

Shaking his head, John sat up and crawled out of the tent. He saw Sherlock standing far away, and headed the opposite direction. He relieved himself near a tree, and walked down to the creek to wash his hands and splash water over his face. 

As much as he was questioning Sherlock's motives, he was questioning his own. Why didn't he object and pull back? Why did he stay, and kiss Sherlock? Had he liked it? Did he want more?

\---

-A/N: Hmmmm... turning things up a notch or two. Thanks for still reading this strange little story! Comments & kudos are wonderful. 

-Betelgeuse: This is the 9th brightest star in the night sky and a huge Red Giant star, 10 to 20 times bigger than our Sun. According to Wikipedia: "If Betelgeuse were at the center of the Solar System, its surface would extend past the asteroid belt, wholly engulfing the orbits of Mercury, Venus, Earth and Mars." It's 640 light years away, and in it's last stage, likely going to explode into a supernova in the next million years. The name derives from Arabic for 'the hand of Orion'. I picked it because I love the constellation, but also because 'Betelgeuse' is often pronounced 'Beetlejuice', which is the fantastic Tim Burton movie from 1988 starring Michael Keaton & Winona Ryder. If you say 'Beetlejuice' three times, he will appear and help the recently dead with scaring people from their house, causing tons of mayhem in the process.


	9. Chapter 9

"What did you think of it?" Molly asked, stirring her tea.

John smiled warmly at his friend. "It was excellent. Elizabeth Bennett is quite a strong character."

"Yes, I love how she declines the proposals from Mr. Collins and then from Mr. Darcy. A powerful man with an income of £10,000 a year!" Her brown eyes were wide with enthusiasm.

Taking a bite of his scone, John nodded in agreement. "To live at Pemberly, I'd marry him." 

The comment made Molly burst out laughing wholeheartedly, and she raised a hand to cover her mouth. "John, you mustn't say things like that. It's too shocking for polite company."

John enjoyed seeing her amusement. It had been so quiet around the house lately, and he missed having fun conversations like this. 

Things had been different with Sherlock since returning to London. Since The Kiss. There was no doubt Sherlock was avoiding him, often buried in a newspaper and rarely saying more than ten words to John. Attempts to discuss books fell flat, getting a noncommittal grunt only. 

"What did you think of the book I lent you?" John asked, glancing down at the slim volume. These meetings with Molly to discuss books were giving him a different perspective on things. She tended to give him novels popular with her friends, and he had gained a greater understanding of society women from them. 

Molly paused as she considered her answer. "It was challenging to read at first, but I loved it by the end. I agree with her view that women have more to contribute than just being ornaments in society or treated like property to be traded. We deserve to have formal education and to be a companion in marriage, instead of just a wife."

"What ideas are you putting into Molly's head, John?" Sherlock sighed as he strolled into the drawing room, taking a biscuit from their plate before sitting down at his desk.

A little surprised that Sherlock deigned to join them, John was thrown off for a moment. 

Molly sensed the awkwardness in the room, and jumped in. "We are exchanging books for discussion. I gave him _"Pride and Prejudice"._ He gave me...," she turned the book to read the spine. _"Vindication of the Rights of Woman: with Strictures on..."_

She was cut-off by Sherlock scoffing. "John, do you really think Molly has any interest in deep questioning of societal values like that? Leave her to her novels."

"Don't be rude, Sherlock." John snapped, glaring his way. "Molly is well read on a wide variety of topics. It's sad she didn't have access to formal education." It was fine if he wanted to be gruff around John, but Molly didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of their fallout.

Molly gave John a grateful look. "Many people would do more if they were just given the opportunity. It's too late for me, but I want to help things be better for younger women."

John looked over at Sherlock and could see he was deep into his reading, and really not paying them much attention. Since they had been back, he had been catching up on newspapers they had missed.

Leaning towards Molly, John lowered his voice. "It's not too late for you, Molly. You have a bright mind and a lot of general knowledge. I don't think there's an age where we stop being able to learn."

Molly nodded in agreement, but John could tell she was just being polite towards him, and didn't truly believe it. She needed more convincing.

"Look, my father was awful when I was little, hating his job at the factory with its long hours and bad conditions. He turned to drinking more and more to cope or escape from it all. Soon, he was trying to hide it by drinking coffee, to appear sober at home and at work." John said softly to Molly, her eyes compassionate as she listened. 

John gave a small smile. "But when I was only ten or so, I noticed things changing. He was drinking less, and seemed to have a better attitude."

Molly looked curious. "What happened?"

Nodding, John continued. "You don't see it as much now, but the coffeehouses used to be gathering places for men of all ages and classes. For a penny, you got a cup of coffee and access to newspapers, pamphlets and books to read while you were there. Patrons discussed the issues of the day, and a sailor could talk to an earl and be answered civilly."

"Really? You don't see the classes mixing much these days. Most rich men seem to belong to private clubs, like White's." Molly commented.

John nodded in agreement. "Yes, there used to be hundreds of coffeehouses in London like that, but many aren't around anymore. Tea became more popular and people tended to drink it at home, invite people over." He lifted his teacup in salute, and then took a sip.

"So, your father went to the coffeehouses back then?" Molly brought the conversation back to the previous topic.

"Yes, and gradually he started spending more time there, reading and getting involved in the discussions. He was drinking alcohol less and less. He even took me there a few times, gave me pamphlets to read, taught me a lot." John said, looking down into his empty cup. "He showed me the area that had weaver riots when he was my age, and where two men were hanged in Bethnal Green."

Molly's eyes were large. "Riots? What for?"

John shrugged. "They were fighting to get a fair wage for their work, trying to form unions. The same thing that is still going on now."

Glancing Sherlock's way discretely, John could tell that he was listening even though he was acting like he was reading. 

"I don't know much about politics, but isn't this just causing a lot of unrest, gathering people and signing petitions, marching and rioting in the streets?" Molly asked, leaning back in her chair.

John sat up straighter. "Well, how else can we get heard and have things change? The system now favors the rich. They are the only ones who have the right to vote, and even that is corrupt. We should all have a voice in how the country is run."

"Where do you get these ideas, John?" Sherlock drawled, pinning him with his light green gaze.

Sighing, John glanced his way. "Books from your library, booklets you can buy everywhere. Sometimes people gather to hear speeches in parks. My friend Mike heard Henry Hunt at Spa Fields, and says he was the best orator ever. I want to hear him when I get a chance."

"Molly, ignore all this." Sherlock stood, and took the book from her hands, looking it over dismissively. "It's one thing to explore the ideas, but to push them into political action leads to things like the French Revolution. Now, after 30 years of war and unrest, a king is back on the French throne. Millions have died, and for what? Has anything changed for the better?"

Molly looked between Sherlock and John, clearly confused and upset at the tension between the men. She valued John as a friend now, and had loved Sherlock for her whole life, and didn't like the idea of picking sides. 

John could see the warring emotions on her face, and reached over to pat her hand. "Molly, it's alright. Political debates often flare up one's emotions but we are all mature enough to hear different views and hopefully consider them objectively. Sherlock comes from a rich background, but he is fairly progressive in a lot of his thinking. I come from a poor family, and seeing how you live has been eye opening, to say the least."

"I hope you don't just think of us as shallow and spoiled." Molly seemed to be calming down from John's comment.

John gave her a kind smile. "Of course not. You are very generous with your charity work, and Sherlock works hard in science to help others in the field. Neither of you spend money foolishly or gamble to excess. You have both treated me well, right from the start."

Molly stood up, gathering her things. "Well, it has been a pleasure getting to know you the last few weeks. I like expanding my knowledge and challenging old ideas." She walked by Sherlock, taking the book back from his hand. With a quick goodbye, she was on her way.

\---

John had gone back to finishing his novel, and Sherlock to his newspapers, both quietly concentrating on their own interests. He liked this, the companionship of being with someone, and hoped Sherlock was getting back to how they had been before. Obviously the kiss had disturbed everything. John would avoid bringing it up, act like things were normal.

They really weren't normal though. Since that morning, he had felt even more aware of Sherlock than ever. Before, it had only been when his friend was casually touching him, or standing particularly near. Now it felt like there was a constant connection. He often found himself looking at Sherlock, tracing his eyes along his body. Remembering how good it had felt to be against him, feeling his warmth, smelling his skin. What would it be like to touch his hair, or run fingers along that pale skin? What would it be like to kiss Sherlock some more? Harder, deeper. Long, wet kisses until they were both gasping for air?

A noise from Sherlock pulled John out of his thoughts, and he looked down, trying to collect himself. 

Looking over at Sherlock, he was holding up a newspaper and looked stunned. A rare expression, certainly, for his normally composed friend.

Daringly, John hoped their unspoken truce was still in effect, and walked over to Sherlock. "Um, did you come across something strange?"

Sherlock's sharp eyes glanced assessingly at John, and he nodded after a moment. "I know you didn't watch Anderson's autopsy at the Royal Society that closely, but I wonder if you saw the woman's face? The covering slipped for a few seconds about halfway through."

Right around the time John's stomach was rolling the worst. He shook his head. "Sorry, I didn't see that. Why do you ask?"

Sherlock's long finger landed on a newspaper article about a missing woman. Leaning over his shoulder to read it, John felt aware of his body heat, of being close. He had to focus harder to absorb the information.

It was a report on a housemaid, Ginny Shaw, who had been missing for a week from a Baron's residence. The article mentioned her general description and that she had a distinctive birthmark on her face, a red patch covering most of her left cheek.

When John finished reading, he stepped back. "Um, what do you think?"

Steepling his fingers under his chin, Sherlock seemed in deep thought. "The date of her disappearance is the day before Anderson's autopsy. There could be a connection. I need more information about Ginny Shaw to confirm if she is the woman I saw under Anderson's scalpel."

John nodded in agreement. "I have some connections at Bow Street. I could go ask around, see what they know about this housemaid."

A spark of interest was in those green eyes. "Great idea, John. But I want to come with you."

John looked down at Sherlock's fine pantaloons and waistcoat, and then at his own. "Alright, but we can't go dressed like this or they won't tell us anything."

"Fine, fine." Sherlock agreed impatiently, clearly wanting to jump into his inquiries immediately. "I'll get Donovan to obtain some appropriate clothing for us."

John nodded in agreement, the tension he'd had since The Kiss easing somewhat. Here was something they could do together, and hopefully get back to their normal friendship. It's what he wanted more than anything, and he was eager to prove to Sherlock that they could move forward.

\---

-A/N: After such a fluffy chapter, we are deep into heavy matters again. ;)

-Jane Austen (1775-1817): She is mostly known for her six novels, four published anonymously during her life to limited success, and two posthumously. Her siblings published those last two as a set in 1818, with a note identifying Jane as the author of all the books. Although steady sellers, they were more realistic than the popular Romantic or Victorian novels with greater drama and fantasy of the time. Her nephew wrote her biography in 1869, which introduced her to a wider audience and interest in her writing boomed after that, with her books being reissued and translated into other languages. 

-Income Levels: In _Pride and Prejudice_ (1813), Mr. Darcy's income is mentioned as £10,000 a year. This is about $1,000,000/year today. Miss Elizabeth Bennett's dowry is a measly £40 a year (about $4,000 today) and hardly anything to tempt a good husband. John's army salary was £34/year (about $3,500/year today). The army pay was considered extremely low, so only the most desperate signed up. 

- _Vindication of the Rights of Woman:_ This treatise was published 1792 by Mary Wollstonecraft. It is considered an early work of feminist philosophy, before the term had even been coined (in 1892), in which she argues that women should have the right to formal education and the same fundamental rights as men. It was well received, and quickly had a second edition published, translations made, and editions published in America. Her daughter was Mary Shelley, author of _Frankenstein_ (1818).

-Coffeehouses: Coffee was first being served in London in the 1650s, and by 1675, there were hundreds of coffeehouses in the city (with a population of only 500,000 then). Sober customers got into deeper discussions over religion and politics than the ones in pubs and taverns. King Charles II even feared the effect of this open debate enough that he tried unsuccessfully to quash coffeehouses in 1675. They continued on, often being called 'Penny Universities' since any man could buy coffee for a penny and have access to all the reading materials and lively discussions. 

-Coffee vs. Tea: Tea was put on coffeehouse menus, and became increasingly popular in the 1700s. The East India Company ran an aggressive advertising campaign in the 1750s, and by 1800, tea was England's favorite beverage. Instead of going out to coffeehouses, people began serving tea to guests in their own homes instead.

-Bethnal Green Hangings: There had long been unrest in London's east end with the silk weavers there. Many were French Huguenots (Protestants) or Irish Catholics, and things got even worse when cheaper silk was allowed to be imported from France and cotton calico fabric became popular. Illegal trade unions were formed to protect the wages of the workers, and riots frequently broke out. In 1769, authorities tried to arrest everyone at a union meeting, resulting in the soldiers killing two people, and capturing four. In subsequent trials, false testimony was given, and the two convicted were publicly hanged in Bethnal Green, right outside the Salmon and Ball pub (which still exists). 

-Voting in U.K.: King Henry IV in 1432 established that only owners of land worth 40 shillings or more (a significant sum back then) were eligible to vote, and very little changed until the Reform Act in 1832. Before the Act, only about 500,000 men in all of the UK could vote, and afterwards about 813,000. The total population was 14 million, so only 5.8% could vote. The number of electorates in each borough unfairly varied from 12 to 12,000, with corrupt wealthy people often paying the electorate to vote their way. Further reforms happened over the century, with most men over 21 and women over 30 getting the vote in 1918. The age was brought down to 21 for women in 1928, and for everyone to age 18 in 1969. 

-Spa Fields / Henry Hunt: In November 1816, 10,000 people gathered in the Spa Fields (London) to hear speakers like Henry Hunt talking about electoral reform and relief from hardship and distress, and to deliver a petition to the Prince Regent. He refused to accept it. 20,000 people met there in December 1816 to put more pressure on the government. The meetings were mostly peaceful, but a small group separated from the rest and looted a gun store, and had an altercation with troops. These mass meetings in public made the government fear revolution, so they passed Gagging Acts a few months later, that forbade groups of more than 50 people meeting to deliberate any grievance against church or state unless they had prior approval from an official. 

-France 1789-1819: The French Revolution started in 1789, and there were French Revolutionary Wars from 1792-1802 (around 1 million deaths). King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette were beheaded by guillotine in 1793 (around 30,000 deaths in the Reign of Terror). Napoleonic Wars went from 1803 to 1815 (about 4.5 million deaths). King Louis XVIII reigned afterwards from 1815-1824.


	10. Chapter 10

   
"My oh my, you are quite the dandy now, aren't you?"   
   
Grinning widely, John turned to face his old friend, and hugged him tight.  Pulling back, he searched Mike's face for any changes.  "I can't say how good it is to see you."  
   
Slapping his shoulder, Mike stepped back to pointedly look John up and down.  "Perhaps I shouldn't have hugged you so hard.  I think I wrinkled your ensemble.  Your valet will be most displeased with me."  
   
Playfully glaring at his friend, he pulled him down onto a park bench.  "Oh, shut up."  He tugged self-consciously at the hem of his waistcoat.  "I don't look that different, do I?"    
   
Mike scoffed.  "I'm used to seeing you splattered with mud and blood, wearing your old uniform.  Didn't think you could polish up so pretty."  
   
John took the teasing easily, used to it from years in the same regiment.  They all gave as good as they got.  "So, where are you working these days?"  
   
Shrugging, Mike's grin faded away.  "Here and there, wherever I can get something.  There are too many unemployed in London, too many old soldiers."  
   
Nodding, John understood.  "I know.  I've been there too, except I can't work at the docks or do anything too physical."  
   
"Well, when you are done this 'job', maybe you should come up to Manchester.  I'm going there soon."  Mike said.  
   
John looked at his old friend, and could see how hard the post-army years had been on him as well.  Mike was over forty now, and couldn't handle long days of physical larbour.  "Manchester?  It's been in the papers so often.  Isn't the unemployment just as bad up there?"  
   
"There's factory work.  It will be enough to keep a roof over my head, food on the table."  Mike said softly.   
   
John recalled something.  "Do you still have family up there?  Isn't it where you grew up?"  
   
Mike smiled that John remembered.  "That's right.  So, at least I have my sister and a few cousins who can put a good word in for me where they work."  
   
It was good to see his friend had the possibility of a better opportunity.  From their spotty correspondence the last few years, it had been hard going.  "Well, when I'm done this job, I'm going to try to get a job as a clerk.  But if it doesn't work out, I'll come up there and see how things are."  
   
Mike seemed satisfied with that.  "So, you were very vague in your letters about this job you are doing now.  You are basically being paid to be a rich old man's 'companion'?"  He waggled his eyebrows a little at the end, chuckling.  
   
Rolling his eyes, John huffed slightly.  "It's nothing like that.  He's younger than me and studies science.  He has a wager with his brother about whether I could pass as one of them."  
   
Mike looked him over critically, and John posed, his nose in the air and his back ramrod straight.  He smoothed down the lapels of his coat, the fine deep blue material complementing his fair hair.  "Well, I wasn't sure if I should bow to you or hug you, so I'd say you are doing well.  Does this man treat you good?"  
   
"Well, yes.  Sherlock...um...Mr. Holmes is a decent bloke.  He doesn't care much about money.  He's more of a snob to people if he thinks they are stupid."  John explained.  
   
Mike gave him a long glance, obviously John's slip with the name wasn't unnoticed.  "You sound like you quite like him."  
   
John shifted under his friend's scrutiny.  It felt odd trying to put into words how he felt about Sherlock.  "Even though we come from such different backgrounds, we get along surprisingly well.  We debate over books and politics, laugh over satires and plays."  
   
"Hmmmm...." Mike didn't look too convinced.  "You haven't been around gentry as much as I have, John.  They can be two-faced sometimes.  Act like your friend when they want something from you, or when you interest them.  Drop you like a stone when you are of no use to them anymore."  
   
John took his friend's words to heart.  Mike had worked his way up to a Lieutenant position in the army, whereas most officers were gentry who often bought their commissions.  Mike was frequently frustrated by the lack of knowledge or experience in more senior officers.  
   
They went on to talk about other topics, but the words stayed in John's mind.  Would Sherlock be like that?  They acted like friends most of the time now.  When the bet was over, would Sherlock want to continue their relationship?  He said he enjoyed having John in his house, but when John moved out and found his own place, would Sherlock forget about him?  Out of sight, out of mind?  Was he just a convenient toy Sherlock was playing with for a few months, to drop when his interest was captured elsewhere?  
   
 ---  
   
"Good day, Lady de Bourgh."  Mycroft nodded at the older lady as her carriage passed.   
   
He thumped Sherlock's leg.  "You need to at least nod to people as we pass them, Sherlock.  No wonder you are still single."  
   
Sherlock sighed.  "Look, I'm here, dressed nicely and even let your valet retie my ascot into this frippery."  He waved with a look of disgust at the loops and flounces adorning his neck.  "Do I really have to be polite as well?  Surely my presence is enough?"  
   
"No, Sherlock.  You have to make at least a few appearances during the Season.  I've heard rumors that people wonder if you are part of the crowd that frequents The Swan."  Mycroft smiled politely at another passing society matron.  
   
Looking across Hyde Park, Sherlock sighed at the senseless dictates of high society.  Did people really come to this park weekly to drive around in circles, showing off their carriages and posturing for each other?  It was simply the most banal demonstration of idiocy. At least he was sitting in a comfortable carriage with the top folded down, not stuck in the corner of a stuffy drawing room with overeager virgins trying to flirt with him.  

"Fine, I'll do one of these promenades once a month.  And attend the opera with you.  Is that enough to convince the ton I'm dutiful enough?"  He would make appearances, but could avoid long conversations with most of them that way.  
   
Mycroft waved to another lady, her teenage daughter grinning broadly Sherlock's way.  "Those will hardly quell those rumors."  
   
"That I'm a sodomite?  After those reports of my indiscretions with that widow practically drove me out of England?"  Sherlock smirked, not bothered at all.  
   
Mycroft's face tightened with strain.  "That was a decade ago or more. And your apparent closeness with Lord Moriarty the following year muddied the waters."  
   
Sherlock shrugged.  "See, chins will wag no matter what I do.  If you want, I can make some public appearances with Lady Adler again.  She is always requesting my company."  
   
"Still?  After all these years?"  Mycroft looked impressed for a moment as he gave his brother a long, assessing look.  "But never mind that.  You need to appear with some young women, ones who are actually suitable for marriage."  
   
"And Lady Adler isn't?"  Sherlock smirked.  
   
Mycroft sighed.  "You know very well that she isn't.  Scandal follows her everywhere.  To invite her to a country house party results in at least two couples separating afterwards."   
   
 "Fine.  I'll ask Molly to invite a few of her single friends to a wholesome outing to Vauxhall.  It will be good practice for John as well."  Sherlock finally conceded.  
   
Mycroft turned slightly towards Sherlock.  "Oh yes, your little summer project.  How is your broken soldier doing these days?"  
   
Sherlock gave a small smile.  "Surprisingly good.  He has an interesting past and a sharp mind."  
   
Arching an eyebrow, Mycroft seemed doubtful.  “Has he now?”  It was clearly a pandering answer.   
   
“Mycroft, was there a certain day that you woke up and become jaded suddenly, or did it occur gradually over several years?”  Sherlock asked cheekily.  
   
With a large sigh, Mycroft looked at his brother.  “Fine.  Please do tell me all about your soldier.  I’m quite interested, really.”  His dry tone did little to hide his sarcasm.  
   
Crossing his legs, Sherlock sent a dazzling smile at the next virgin paraded before him as a carriage passed.  Her mother practically fell over twisting around to look back at him in surprise.  Chuckling, he glanced at his brother.  “On second thought, I think I shall leave you to discover the intricacies of Mr. Watson yourself when we are at Almack’s.”   
   
“Oh, please stop toying with the debutants.  Now I’ll have to get Anthea to visit Lady Dalrymple, and discourage her from making any plans in regards to you with her daughter.”  Mycroft seemed put out.  “I don’t why young women fawn over you so.  Your income is barely average.”   
   
The carriage slowed to go around a corner, and Sherlock stepped off.  “Perhaps it’s my air of mystery.”  He grinned as the carriage moved along, carrying his brother away.  These dutiful appearances were best kept as short as possible.  If he stayed much longer, he would probably cause more havoc that wasn’t as easy to correct, simply out of boredom.  
   
 ---

John pulled his coat tighter around his body, shivering slightly. Beside him, Sherlock flicked a glance his way before looking back out on the street. He didn't seem to be feeling the damp chill as much as John was. If they did this again, he would definitely wear a scarf, and maybe gloves too. 

His tweed suit was at least more comfortable than the pantaloons and waistcoats he had been wearing in recent weeks. The rougher material was thick, the pant legs loose. They both fit in much better to the neighbourhood. 

Doing a stakeout with someone felt quite strange. Before, he had always been alone, settling into a watchful state, focussing his attention on one particular building. Sitting quietly with Sherlock just felt awkward. More aware of the silence between them, and feeling compelled to speak, fill the silence. Entertain Sherlock perhaps. The whole notion had him shaking his head. 

Maybe it was the low level of awareness he always felt around Sherlock as well. In the quiet absence of other things to focus on, he felt doubly aware of Sherlock; his soft breathing, small shifts of his body, his nearness. 

"Are you sure this is the right address?" John finally mumbled, just something to break the silence. 

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, John." 

Tempted to talk more, John had to force himself to just be quiet. And wait. 

Perhaps Sherlock was feeling the tension too, or maybe he was just bored. He shifted against the stone wall they were sitting on. 

John sensed movement, and he was instantly still and scanning over the area. Two men approached the back door, knocking twice softly. It was not well lit, but they seemed to be carrying a cloth-covered bundle. 

The door opened, and only a few words were spoken before the large item was passed over. The two men were quickly walking away. 

John was slipping behind them, only remembering Sherlock after he had gone a block, glancing back and seeing the taller man a few feet behind him. Knowing he would lose the suspects if he waited, he pressed on, getting as close as he dared, looking for identifying features. But it was too dark and they moved too fast. 

Their course was twisty, but John knew the area well enough to keep his bearings. After a few blocks, he could hear Sherlock breathing heavily, struggling to keep up. It made him smirk as he pressed on. 

The men never noticed their tale, and headed up some stairs to main floor flat. John tucked himself into a dark corner, watching, and waited for Sherlock. 

It took a few minutes for him to appear, and John pulled the larger man back into his alcove. It was crowded, hiding there in the shadows, hearing Sherlock's breathing returning back to normal. His heart was still beating fast, the hunt aways sharpening all his senses. 

"They went into number 3." John commented quietly. 

"So, we will watch for a while then." Sherlock replied, settling against the wall. 

It probably wasn't necessary to both be watching the suspects. "Um...Sherlock, I can stay if you want to go home. They likely won't go anywhere else tonight." 

Shaking his head, Sherlock didn't move. "I'm used to late hours. We need to catch these men soon. The dead body market will be over for the summer soon." 

"So, they are selling the bodies they dig up?" John hadn't considered this before. "For how much?" 

Sherlock shrugged. "It varies, depending on the market, but I've heard up to £10." 

John was amazed. "There is that much demand for them?" 

"Well, there are anatomy theatres at St. Thomas, St. Bartholomew, London Hospital, Great Windmill St, Blenheim St, plus all the private ones." Sherlock explained. "Resurrection Men know how to get the best price." 

John went back to watching the door as he did the calculations. Even working only six or so months a year, they could easily make ten times what John made in the army in a full year. 

It was quiet in the street at this hour, and John settled into it. He was used to this type of work. But it became evident pretty quickly that Sherlock wasn't. Thankfully, John had quick reflexes and caught Sherlock as he listed to the side. 

"Sherlock!" John whispered, giving the man a shake. "Really, you can go home." 

The taller man was shaking his head to feel more alert. "No, no....I'm alright." 

John could tell by his sleepy tone that he wouldn't last long. "Stubborn git." He mumbled, moving a little closer to catch Sherlock if he was falling over. 

Watching a quiet doorway on a quiet street in the dark was not very stimulating, and he could feel when Sherlock was getting drowsy again. Shifting closer, he was able to lean the taller man against the wall and press against one side to keep him in place. He chuckled when Sherlock's head leaned against his a few moments later. 

It was strangely intimate but nice as well. Sherlock trusting him enough to relax and fall asleep like this. He felt a surge of protectiveness over him, keeping him safe while they were in rougher parts of the city. He knew Sherlock wasn't a stranger to the poorer areas, but he probably hadn't seen it at it's worst, like John had. Would he be able to defend himself in a fight or if someone pulled a knife? 

An hour or more passed, and John was feeling cold and his muscles ached. He needed to move around. Things were still quiet on their quarry. He could come back during the day on his own and find out more. Maybe slip some money to a nosy neighbour for their names and other information. He could come back with Sherlock at dusk to follow them again. 

Shifting slowly, he braced his hands on Sherlock's shoulder, and stepped away. The loss of his support made him jolt awake, blinking sleepily at John. He looked young and sweet, and John gave him a small amused smile. 

"Come on, let's head home." He didn't bother telling Sherlock he had been snoozing, not wanting to have him proudly deny it again. 

The streets were still very empty, and felt foreign as they walked home. 

Sherlock kicked an empty bottle, hearing it skitter over the cobbled street before clinking against the curb. "You were very good before, when you were following the men." His light eyes caught John's, holding his gaze before John looked down. 

"Um, thanks." John said softly. Praise wasn't something he got that often. 

"Seriously, I would have lost them if not for you. I owe you." Sherlock sounded sincere. 

John smirked. "Oh really? Hmmm... should I ask you for a favour then?" He pondered the possibilities. 

Sherlock bent down to pick a squashed flower from the street. "I already give you food, shelter and clothing." He twirled the daisy with his long fingers. 

"But that's part of our original agreement." John chuckled. Teasing Sherlock felt good. They had gone too long with things strained between them. 

Glancing Sherlock's way, John saw his face with a nearby gaslight illuminating it. He was pouting slightly, looking a little frustrated. Sleepiness was making his eyes less bright. It was amusing seeing him trying to debate with John, but being too tired to be up to the task. 

"Don't worry about it, Sherlock." They were home now, and John quietly slipped inside. He made tea, just needing something warm to drink before going to bed. 

By the time they were sitting in front of the drawing room fire, sipping from their cups, Sherlock had revived somewhat. "So, let's review everything we have found out. The housekeeper's description of Ginny matches that of Anderson's cadaver. We know where her errands took her that night. Tonight, we saw Anderson getting another body delivered to his house, and we followed the men back to their flat. We just need to figure out who they are and watch them, see how they are obtaining their bodies." 

John nodded, following Sherlock's reasoning. "But even if we catch them digging up a body and take them to the magistrate, they will probably only get charged with a misdemeanour." 

"Don't you see, John? Anderson's men aren't bothering to get their bodies from graveyards. They killed Ginny, took her body straight to Anderson's house, and got paid handsomely for it." Sherlock finished his tea. 

John stared at his friend in shock, firelight flickering over his features. "Murder. You are talking about murder for money." A cold shiver passed through him at the thought. 

Sherlock leaned forward. "Yes, and we need to stop them." He stood, and went up to bed. 

It was a long time before John followed. He was staring into the fire, the word Murder echoing in his thoughts. 

\--- 

-A/N: Hope you liked this chapter. Some teasing hints at Sherlock's past. ;) 

-Sodomites: Gay men were referred to as 'sodomites' at this time. The term 'homosexual' wasn't used until around 1892. In the early 1800's, trials and executions for sodomy occurred more than they ever had before, including huge scandals around wealthy men like Isaac Hitchen who was hanged in 1806. In 1811, Viscount Courtney was forced to flee to America to avoid prosecution after having a twenty-five year relationship with fabulously wealthy William Beckford, M.P. for Wells. Even King George III's unpopular 5th son, Earnest Augustus, was suspected (his titles: HRH field marshal, the Duke of Cumberland, afterwards King of Hanover). 

-Buggery Act 1533: Buggery or sodomy were considered to be any 'unnatural act', including anal or oral intercourse between a man and another man, woman, or beast. The first official law against it was the Buggery Act of 1533. It was hard to get a conviction, since they had to prove both penetration and ejaculation had occurred, and two witnesses were required to prove the crime. So many men were prosecuted with the reduced charge of assault with sodomitical intent instead. Punishment for this was usually the pillory, fines, or being imprisoned for periods of up to two years. But it was better than being hanged for a sodomy conviction. It was a capital offence until 1861. 

-Molly Houses / The Swan: In the 18th and 19th century, gay men's meeting places were frequently called Molly Houses. They could be pubs, taverns, coffeehouses or just a private room. There doesn't seem to be male prostitutes, as this was a just place were members of the gay community could socialize and have sex with each other. There were undercover spies and raids on known molly houses, and suspected gay men were frequently blackmailed to keep their secrets. In 1810, there was a raid of the molly house 'The Swan', resulting in two men being hanged for sodomy. Six others were found guilty of attempted sodomy and were pilloried in September of that year. The crowds who turned out to witness the scene were violent and unruly, throwing various objects (including rotten fish, "cannonballs" made of mud, and of course vegetables) at the men. The women were reported as being particularly vicious. The city provided a guard of 200 armed constables, half mounted and half on foot, to protect the men from even worse mistreatment. 

-Hyde Park Promenade: During the social Season when the gentry were all in London (usually after Christmas until late June), there were regular times that they gathered in this large park. Riders would come in the mornings, and carriages were usually between 5 - 7 pm. After church on Sundays, many people toured around the grounds between 1 - 2 pm. It was a chance to show off your wealth, displayed easily by the quality of your horses and the fineness of your carriage. A place to see everyone and be seen. 

-Resurrection Men: During this era, there were many anatomy schools in London and Edinburgh. Since there was no refrigeration or embalming/formaldehyde available then, bodies didn't last long and there was a need for fresh ones often. This high demand resulted in many people getting paid by the schools under the table for bodies taken from graves. £10 then is equivalent to about $1000 now, so it was a highly lucrative business for the 'Resurrection Men', as these body snatchers were called. 


	11. Chapter 11

"Bishop and Williams?" Sherlock said softly, looking towards the flat.

John nodded. "That's what the woman across the street said. Bishop has lived there about a year."

Sherlock pulled up the collar of his coat. It had been drizzling all day, leaving things a little chilly. "Did she mention anything else about them? Seeing anything suspicious?"

"Well, I could hardly ask her if she'd seen them carrying dead bodies around." John was glad he was wearing a scarf and gloves tonight, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

They had already been watching the flat for a few hours, with no one coming or going. The curtains were drawn, and it was light inside.

Sherlock shrugged. "I think the chances of seeing anything tonight is pretty low. Anderson can probably work on the body a few days before he'll need a new one."

"They could have other people they supply." John added. 

Nodding, Sherlock's eyes held his a second before looking away. "You are right. I want to watch them every night until we catch them in the act." 

John looked at his profile in the dim light of their alcove. In the past, he had questioned Sherlock's ethics. It was good to hear him being so determined to catch these murderers. There was no doubt in his expression. He was willing to disrupt his schedule, for as long as it took, to do the right thing. 

In his pocket, his fingers toyed with the coil of rope there. They would need to act fast once they got the evidence they needed. Would Sherlock be able to handle one man on his own while John handled the other? He didn't want a repeat of how things had gone last time he tried to capture someone.

The rain started coming down harder, and with a bit more wind, it was blowing into their area. John swore, chuckling, as he wiped the moisture from his face.

Sherlock chuckled as well. "I doubt they will go out in this, since potential victims will stay in too. Let's go home."

John agreed, and they headed through the twisting back streets quickly. They had hardly gone two blocks, when the clouds opened up with a crack of thunder. In seconds, they were completely soaked.

"Down here, John." Sherlock called out over the storm, ducking down a side street. After a couple more turns, they were at Sherlock's flat.

He unlocked the door, and they both sighed in relief to get out of the rain. Sherlock lit the oil lamps and then went to the fireplace, getting a fire going surprisingly fast. 

John took off his coat, draping it over one of the chairs. "I didn't think you had fires in here."

Sherlock took off his coat as well, spreading it over the other chair. "Just when I'm doing work in here. When I was done for the summer, I had a local woman give the place a good cleaning and stock up the coal." 

Grateful for the warmth, John held his hands out to the flames. He jumped when something went over his face.

"Relax. It's just a towel for your hair." Sherlock was rubbing one against his own head, leaving the curls in a wet disarray.

John laughed, and dried his hair and face. When he lowered the towel, Sherlock had sat on the edge of the bed, and was kicking his wet shoes off. 

He walked closer, his towel slung around his neck. "Your hair is sticking up like a hedgehog." Chuckling, he reached out with both hands, smoothing the wet curls into better order.

Sherlock stilled under his touch, looking up at John standing right in front of him. 

John's breath caught at that look, and he froze, his heart thumping in his chest. "You said yesterday that you owed me one."

"Yes...." Sherlock's gaze was steady on his.

Taking a deep breath for courage, John dipped his head down to press his lips to Sherlock's, not sure how he would react, but just needing this. Needing to know.

There was an endless second or two when Sherlock stiffened in surprise, and John feared he would pull away. But then he softened, tipping his head back for a better angle, and kissing John just as intensely.

John let out a small moan, stepping closer, and digging his hands into Sherlock's wet hair, losing himself in kiss after kiss. This is what he had wanted since that first one. Just more. 

Tugging on John's shoulder, Sherlock urged him forward as he shifted back on the bed. John sat down beside him, kissing along his jaw and nuzzling into his neck, smelling and tasting his skin.

"John..." Sherlock groaned, putting his hands on John's upper arms and pushing him away. 

Looking at Sherlock in confusion, John thought he'd never looked better. His lips were kiss-swollen, his eyes dark, his hair a mess from John's hands. He just wanted to lean in for more, but Sherlock's hands held him back.

Sherlock let go and shifted away on the bed, running his hands through his hair as he let out a deep breath. "We can't...," he sighed as he looked back at John. "As much as I want to, we can't, John."

"Why not?" John untied the damp cloth at his neck, breathing easier with the fabric loosened. "You kissed me that morning in the tent, and I haven't been able to think of anything else since. I want this. I want you."

Sherlock shook his head. "You are confused, John. Maybe you are mistaking our friendship for more than it is. This isn't you."

John let out an impatient huff. "I'm not some young virgin fresh out of school, Sherlock. I know when I'm attracted to someone, I know what sex involves."

Bright eyes caught his, holding them. "But you have never been with a man before, have you? This is against your nature. It's not the right choice for you. I never should have kissed you that morning." Sherlock got up and walked to the fire.

Sighing, John laid back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, feeling suddenly exhausted. How could he convince Sherlock he was wrong, so wrong, about this?

"Yes, I have never been with a man before, but I'm not just turning to you because you are convenient. It's not just to satisfy a physical urge with another person. I fantasize about undressing you, Sherlock. Exploring your skin, tasting it. Touching you." John said softly. 

Sherlock turned to face John, his hands on his hips, backlit by the glow from the fire. "This is not the right path for you, John. Your nature is to follow the rules, do what is right. You want to help fight crime. Being together would be breaking the law, and you could face the noose if we were caught."

Sitting up again, John looked at Sherlock, seeing how adamant he was about this. Could he be right? Was it just a passing infatuation, an intense sexual fantasy? Would he regret it forever if they acted on it? How could they really be together, with how much society shunned it? 

Then again, maybe Sherlock wasn't that interested. He knew they would only be around each other a few more weeks and he probably didn't want any physical or emotional entanglements. Maybe he was only interested enough to try kissing John, but it didn't mean more than that to him. 

In a few weeks, John would be out of his house, and Sherlock would be free to indulge in liaisons with men his own class again. He could picture Sherlock dressed in a fine silk robe, slipping into a guest's bedroom during one of those country house parties. The newspapers were full of scandals of the gentry misbehaving that way. No strings attached.

Getting up, he nodded at Sherlock, feeling defeated, and pulled his coat back on. "I understand, Sherlock. I will not bother you this way again." 

Opening the door, he could see it was still raining steadily, but he didn't care. "Goodnight, Sherlock." He threw the words over his shoulder as he closed the door behind him and walked home, not caring that he got soaked.

Back at the house, Donovan scolded him for being out in the rain and soon had him in dry clothes and in bed. It was nice being taken care of, even when he felt so numb and detached from the world.

As he laid in his warm bed, unable to sleep, he thought of what to do next. He would push down his feelings and try to act normal around Sherlock, and hopefully they could just finish these last few weeks peacefully. It was more important than ever that he win the bet with Sherlock, and start on a good life path. 

\---

"Do you like art, Miss Donlevy?" John asked as he sipped some lemonade. 

The dark haired beauty smiled. "Well, I can appreciate people who draw and paint well, like Miss Hooper, but I have no skill there myself."

Molly glanced over at her friend fondly. "But she more than makes up for it with her talent on the piano." 

John nodded. "Well, perhaps we should have a musical evening sometime. You could play a duet with Mr. Holmes."

"Mr. Holmes?" Her dark eyes went over to the well dressed man mingling near the trees.

John followed her gaze, and tried to keep his expression normal. Sherlock looked particularly good today; in buff pantaloons, riding boots, and a black coat. "Yes, he plays the violin very well."

Her look towards Sherlock became even more interested, and John sighed to himself. Sherlock was already getting quite a bit of attention from the women on this outing. He didn't need to encourage it.

Molly had obviously dressed with care, the soft coral of her day gown very flattering to her complexion. She often positioned herself close to Sherlock, and brought him a plate of food from their picnic.

"Miss Morstan, are you musical as well?" John turned to Molly's other friend. This outing was to practice being around Society ladies, and he needed to focus on them, not Sherlock.

The blonde shook her head, smiling a little in amusement. "I'm afraid I can't compete at all with my friend's artistic or musical abilities. I was close with my older brother, growing up, and just did whatever he did. Rode horses, climbed on rocks, swam in the river." She shrugged. 

Miss Donlevy chuckled. "Yes, Miss Morstan was brown as a berry, had twigs in her hair, and just scowled at me whenever I suggested we play with dolls when we were girls. She was quite the tomboy, and it was a shock when she came out, looking so pretty."

John liked the easy friendship between the three women, and how they didn't seem to conform to the image he had of ladies of the ton. He had expected them to giggle constantly, and talk of gossip and fashion. These were intelligent, well-read women with their own interests and talents. 

Getting up, he excused himself, leaving the ladies to chat as he stretched his legs. Sherlock had been standing away from their group, talking with Mary's brother, and an older man John didn't know. He joined them.

"Mr. Watson, come meet Colonel Miller. He was Richard's commander." Sherlock made the introductions, and John shook the older man's hand. 

Miss Morstan's brother, Richard, soon had them all laughing with stories from their regiment, the Colonel smiling along. They were in the cavalry.

"Mr. Watson only started learning to ride since he's been staying with me. He has picked it up very well." Sherlock commented. He was polite but cool towards John today, and John tried to act the same way. 

The Colonel looked his way in interest. "You never learned before?"

John shrugged slightly. "I must confess I had a childhood fear of horses, reinforced by a few unfortunate incidents. Mr. Holmes was patient with me, only getting me to pet a horse the first day and ride around the garden. Everyday it was a little longer in the saddle, until I feel pretty confident now." He nodded at Sherlock, giving thanks for his patient teaching.

The Colonel turned towards Sherlock. "Perhaps you could do that approach with my boy. I've tried everything, and he refuses to even get near a horse."

"How many children do you have?" John asked, liking the older man's calm manner.

"A boy of eight, and a girl of six." Pride was evident in his tone.

Mr. Morstan nudged his friend's shoulder. "And since his wife passed, he has been taking care of them without a governess."

The older man shrugged. "It was a hard time, losing their mother when they were so young. We have a housekeeper, so it's not that much work for me to take care of them."

John watched the older man as the conversation went on to other topics. It became a little more heated when the Royal Academy summer Exhibit was brought up.

"He is so overrated!" Mr. Morstan shot back. "I saw his painting of Hannibal coming over the Alps, and half the canvas was a blurry mess."

Colonel Miller smiled fondly at his friend's comments. "I disagree, Richard. When I look at his work, I am amazed at the way he captures the power of a storm, or the sea. Also, how he paints sunlight, the soft glow just filling the sky."

John glanced back to the ladies, still chatting on the picnic blanket. "Well, you should join us then when we go to see this year's exhibit. Miss Hooper is coming with us, and she admires Turner's work as well." 

The Colonel gave Molly a lingering look, before turning back to John. "That's a splendid idea."

Richard huffed in annoyance. "Enough of this polite chit chat. I need to move around, do something." He waved to a large canvas sack laying on the ground. "Would you chaps join me in a casual game of cricket? I have equipment here."

The Colonel shook his head. "You three go ahead. I think I'll sit and drink some lemonade." 

John and Sherlock agreed, and they set up the wickets.

\---

An hour later, John felt pleasantly tired. It felt good to run around, playing cricket, being outside with friends. Molly was still in a deep conversation with Colonel Miller, and Miss Morstan and Miss Donlevy were sitting on a park bench, watching their game. Miss Donlevy seemed to be sending flirtatious looks equally in the direction of Sherlock and Richard. Sherlock seemed as oblivious of her interest as he was of Molly's. 

Miss Morstan seemed to split her time into saying playful insults at her brother's technique and cheering John on. He smiled at her in return, enjoying her comments.

Richard bowled, and John's bat connected well, and he watched as the ball flew off into the trees at the side of their field. 

"That's six runs for me." John cried out, jogging into the greenery to find the ball. It was fairly dense, with lots of trees and low shrubs, making it hard to find the ball. 

There was a sound of someone else approaching, and John was surprised to see it was Sherlock. He shrugged. "Richard was chatting with his sister and Miss Donlevy, so I thought I'd help you find the ball."

"I'm sure that's the only reason you are here." John chuckled, moving aside some branches in his search. "Admit it. You are avoiding Miss Donlevy."

Sherlock gave a laugh. "She's a lovely woman, but not really my type."

John disagreed, but didn't say anything. The brunette was quite smart and funny, keeping up with the conversation easily. She was tall like Sherlock, and John had considered how attractive a couple they would make. 

"I can see why this park has a reputation for romantic assignations. These woods are thick." John grumbled, looking still for the lost ball.

Turning around, he was startled to find Sherlock standing close behind him. He had taken off his coat to play cricket, and his waistcoat was a deep burgundy colour, snugly tailored to his lean chest. His hair was messy from the game, his face flushed a little from the exercise and the warm sun. 

Sherlock pushed John against a tree, and crowded against him. "I shouldn't do this...," he whispered harshly, and leaned in to capture John's lips. The kiss was hard and deep, right from the start. 

John groaned, wrapping his arms around Sherlock tightly, pulling him in closer. He felt surrounded by Sherlock, his taller body pressing him into the wood. It was so passionate and unrestrained, in a way that it had never been with a female partner. 

Sherlock's mouth moved to his neck, kissing him there, sucking at his skin, and John arched against him. "Sherlock, what are you doing to me...," John panted, his hands running down his long back.

"We have to go." Sherlock lifted his head, the heat in his gaze making John shake his head.

"Just a few minutes more. Please." John said softly into his ear, licking along the edge of it and feeling delighted when he shuddered against him. 

\--- 

It was probably more than a few minutes when they finally drew apart. They straightened each other's clothes and hair, Sherlock pulling a leaf from John's sleeve. The cricket ball was found closer to the field, and they gave each other a long look before they walked back out.

"Finally!" Molly chuckled at spotting them. "Colonel Miller was about to come looking for you." 

The other three were still joking around, not seeming to have missed them much. 

"I think we better get going, Molly. John and I have to go out tonight for a science project." Sherlock said, pulling his coat back on. "Do you want to stay with your friends, or leave now with us?"

She glanced over at the Colonel. "Um, I might stay a little longer."

"I've heard there is a performance of Handel's Fireworks here later. I was thinking of attending." Colonel Miller could hardly look away from the younger woman.

John grinned. "Well, that's settled then. You should definitely stay for the concert, Miss Hooper."

Sherlock and John quickly said goodbye to the rest of the party, and were on their way.

\---

-A/N: Yay! More kisses... 

-Royal Academy Exhibit: The Royal Academy of the Arts is an independent institution that started in 1768 by eminent artists and architects, with the purpose to promote visual arts with exhibitions, education and debate. They held their first summer exhibition in 1769, and it has run annually since. Today, up to 1,000 pièces are selected from 10,000 entries (max 2/artist). It is the largest and most popular open art exhibition in the U.K. 

-Turner: J.M.W. Turner (1775-1851) was an English Romanticist landscape painter, known for using oil paints and watercolours. He is commonly known as the 'painter of light', although he predated the Impressionist artists by many decades. His first piece was displayed at the Royal Academy summer exhibition of 1790, when he was only 15 years old. His talent was recognized early in his life, and he sold enough art to travel Europe widely and live comfortably. 'Hannibal Crossing The Alps' was an oil painting completed in 1812. He bequeathed his collection to the nation, and a large portion can be viewed at the Tate Britain museum.  
Movie Tie-in: There's a great biopic of him in his later years, 'Mr. Turner' (2014), that is beautifully filmed. 

-Cricket: I'm Canadian so I know diddly squat about cricket. I only know about it from watching Downton Abbey. It's kinda like baseball, but has been around longer & most Commonwealth nations are crazy about it. ;) 

-Handel: George Frederick Handel (1685-1759) was born and trained in Germany, but moved to London permanently when he was 27. Wikipedia: "Handel is regarded as one of the greatest composers of the Baroque era, with works such as 'Water Music', 'Music for the Royal Fireworks' and 'Messiah' remaining steadfastly popular." 

-Vauxhall Gardens: The area has been a park since the 1660s. In 1785, it took on the name Vauxhall Gardens and charged a small admission to see its many attractions, like tight rope walkers, hot air balloons, concerts and fireworks. The main walks were lit at night with hundreds of lamps. 


	12. Chapter 12

John's fingers played along bottom of Sherlock's waistcoat, working underneath and touching his shirt. Below that thin barrier, he could feel how warm his body was. What would it be like to have this man naked and spread out before him on a bed? Skin completely accessible to John's exploring hands and mouth? He groaned at the thought, imagining kissing along his stomach, cupping his hips with his hands. 

Needing more, he tugged upwards at the material of the shirt. He felt a surge of success when the hem of the linen came free of his trousers, and John could work his hand through that opening. There, bare skin against his questing fingertips, warm and smooth. He traced small patterns over that patch of skin, imagining doing it with the tip of his tongue instead. 

"John...," Sherlock groaned softly. "Are you watching the flat at all?"

Grinning in the dark, John leaned in to whisper in the taller man's ear. "No, I thought we could take turns. This way, it's not as boring, is it?" His fingers dipped downwards, stroking over skin below Sherlock's waistband. 

It was the third night staking out the flat. Long hours tucked close together in their alcove, watching the street and for signs of activity from the flat. It was their best chance to catch Bishops and Williams in the act, but extremely boring. John was just trying to liven things up a little.

"I'm just helping you stay awake while you watch. This isn't too distracting, is it?" John asked innocently, curling his fingers so his nails scratched lightly over Sherlock's skin. 

Closing his eyes briefly in reaction, Sherlock opened them and looked steadfastly towards their quarry. "No, not at all." The roughened quality in his hushed tone made a lie of his words.

John accepted the unspoken challenge, determined now to keep up his subtle caresses until Sherlock admitted to being distracted. It couldn't be anything overt, like undoing the falls of his trousers or unbuttoning his drawers. Someone could peer into their alcove while passing by, and they couldn't raise any notice. Plus, they had to be ready to pursue their subjects the instant something happened. 

His whole hand was now against Sherlock's bare back, pressing possessively over the larger area, claiming it with his touch. Sherlock was slim, but it was arousing to feel the way the flatness at his waist began to curve when John slid his fingers down as far as the constraints of the clothing allowed. He could imagine tracing over the pleasing roundness of Sherlock's ass. He had admired it often enough when Sherlock had his tailcoat off. Tight breeches or pantaloons did nothing to hide his shape. 

John couldn't get enough, exploring the small of Sherlock's back, his hands stroking over his bare, warm skin, his mind filling in the pieces of his imagination. Lost himself completely in it, knowing they had hours. 

He was startled out of his sensual haze by a ragged sigh from Sherlock. "Enough, enough." Sherlock was moving away, and John pulled his hand out of his clothes.

"It's you turn to watch, and my turn to play." Sherlock drawled, shifting John to stand in front of him, facing towards the flat. 

John smirked to himself, and settled into his watching stance, scanning the area. But a part of him was still very aware of Sherlock standing so close. 

His long coat had a slit up the back for riding, and he stilled when he felt Sherlock pull the sides apart and press against him firmly. He must have undone a few of the lower buttons of his own coat, since didn't feel like there was bulky material between them. It was confirmed when Sherlock shifted against him, nudging him. 

John gasped, trying to be quiet, but still shocked. Sherlock was aroused, and not inhibited in rubbing against John. He knew that only the thin material of their drawers and trousers separated them, and it let him feel Sherlock's heat. It was the first time he had felt another man against him like this. Even the other times they had kissed, they hadn't pressed their pelvises close. It was deliciously dirty, and John was completely aroused by it. Aching and breathless.

Large hands clasped John's hips, holding him in place, as he rubbed and teased his erection against John. To anyone passing by, nothing would look amiss. It was dark, their coats hid everything, and his motions were small. Just enough to keep John completely hard, and totally spoil his focus. 

As tempted as he was to turn and wrap his legs around Sherlock, kissing him hungrily, or to haul him away to the flat to be alone, John knew he couldn't. They had to keep watch. Letting out a deep breath, he let Sherlock continue his merciless teasing and watched the flat. 

Sherlock was standing right behind him, and when he exhaled, John could feel the warm breath on the skin not covered by his scarf. It was so deliciously intimate, standing pressed together like this, both so aroused and aware of each other. 

John thought about Sherlock's arguments when they were in the flat, insisting they couldn't do this, and then going against his words with every opportunity he was presented. Was their connection particularly strong, to make him override his own dictates that way? Or had he only said them to warn John, and didn't really mean them for himself? This was all so new to John.

He had said it was against John's nature. But was it? True, he had only been with women before, and hadn't even experimented with men as a young man. But he responded quickly to Sherlock, his body just becoming alive when he was near. 

Sherlock had also talked about how it was against the law, and John was a rule follower. Even now, if they were discovered for what they were doing, they could be charged. Was there a thief taker watching them even now, getting ready to haul them to the magistrate? 

Somehow all the reasons why they shouldn't do this were easily brushed aside by his feelings. Was it simply lust? The pleasure he found in Sherlock's kisses and his touch? Was it their friendship deepening into more? Could they even have more, with the world the way it was?

It was a confusing mess, and John didn't want to even look at it more closely, like he knew he should. He was intoxicated, bespelled, and he didn't want to come out of it yet. 

Sherlock had changed from simply pressing against John to slow rotations of his hips, grinding against him in a way that had John squirming. His soft, quiet chuckle near his ear sent a shiver of awareness down his spine. 

They both froze when they heard a muffled scream and some other noises, unnaturally loud in the quiet of the night. It was hard to tell how close it came from.

"Stay on watch here. I'll go see what it is, and come back if I need you." John didn't like splitting up, but it was the only choice they had. 

Sherlock nodded, and gave John's arm a squeeze. 

Heading in the direction he thought he heard the noise, John used every sense to track it down. Heart thumping with excitement, he crept along in the shadows. 

A block away, he saw a man standing, looking intently in the direction he was headed. "Aye. Did you hear something as well?"

The man was in his fifties, wearing a cap covering his hair and a thick coat. He nodded. "On Baroness Road, mayhap."

John got the feeling the man lived nearby and trusted his sense of the area. He gave a small thanks and jogged that way. 

Coming around a corner he saw three men scuffling, and slipped into a doorway for cover. After a couple minutes of watching, he relaxed, recognizing one of them as another thief catcher, Tom Harker.

He walked over as Tom stood up, his partner busy with tying up their fugitive. "Hey Tom." 

Tom looked at him a minute before recognizing him, looking over his clothes with a low whistle. "Watson, I almost didn't recognize you, dressed so well."

John nodded and smiled, not offering an explanation. 

The other man yanked their prisoner to his feet, his hands tied securely. John looked at the young man, likely not yet twenty, tears streaming down his face silently. Quiet dread filled his eyes, and John could easily remember the night he had been captured. A skinny fifteen year old, shaking in front of the magistrate, hardly understanding the proceedings. It would be even worse for this man, since joining the army was no longer an option. He would be surely on a penal ship within the week.

Tom introduced him to his partner, and they exchanged a few comments before the men led their thief away. 

With a sigh, John turned and walked back to Sherlock. What he saw was a reminder of his past, and what could be his future again very easily. He had been so caught up in the comfortable world of the ton he had lost touch with his reality. 

In a month, the bet would be over and he would be leaving with at least £20 in his pocket and a letter of reference. He could find a cheap place to live, and hopefully get the job as a clerk. If not, he would probably be back to thief taking. Not a good prospect since his shoulder made it hard to capture thieves. Perhaps he could get a partner like Tom had. Some muscle to help, but his rewards would be split. 

The image of the thief stayed with him. He had probably looked similar when he was caught, although even younger. The terror of facing his quick trial and sentencing seemed only months ago, although it was almost 25 years now.

What if he was caught with Sherlock? Would he be led away, tied up and facing the law again? He had been lucky once. He doubted he'd be lucky again. Maybe it would be a light punishment, but more likely it would be harsh. Sherlock would likely get away with nothing or something lighter, coming from a wealthy family with connections.

He couldn't risk it. As tempting as Sherlock was, the negative side was just too much. If things continued with Sherlock, what could even happen? A few snatched moments of pleasure, hidden away from everyone. When the bet was done, he would be leaving Sherlock's house. There was no way he could continue there. To live there longer would eventually raise suspicion. 

Perhaps they could find a way to continue to see each other afterwards. John tried to imagine how it could work. Would Sherlock even want that? If he came to Sherlock's house, they would have to act normal. To be physical, they would have to go to his flat, or somewhere similar, and there was always the risk of someone noticing. The more often they did it, the greater the risk. 

John sighed. Most likely, Sherlock wouldn't bother with any of that once John was out of his house. Out of sight, out of mind. John was a convenient plaything now, a man Sherlock was probably enjoying corrupting. The excitement for him was the novelty of a new partner, and maybe being involved with a lower class man. And that would wear off soon.

 

\---

-A/N: One sexy step forward, two steps back...


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock looked at the procession of horses carved in low relief in the creamy marble, admiring the skill of the ancient art. 

"So, are you ready to admit defeat yet?" Mycroft stepped up to Sherlock's side, scanning quickly over the frieze, looking unimpressed.

Glancing back at his brother, he arched an eyebrow. "For our bet? Hardly."

They moved along the exhibit, examining a partial sculpture of a goddess in a flowing dress, the supple lines of her body perfectly rendered. 

Mycroft still looked confident. "The man I saw wore filthy clothes and reeked. He is a man who does not even care about basic hygiene."

Sherlock smirked. "Hmmm...he bathes daily and wears fashionable clothes well, since he has lived at my house." He often found himself admiring John's slim but strong frame, and felt the urge to nuzzle into his neck, inhaling the scent that was a bit intoxicating, not simply soap. Something purely John.

"He can hardly even stand." Mycroft argued as they moved along. "I don't see how he'll be able to dance properly."

Images of John stealthily moving down a silent street played in Sherlock's memory. Although he was shorter than Sherlock, he was fast and light on his feet. "Well, you would be surprised what regular food, sleep and exercise can do. He has even become quite good on horseback."

Thinking about it like this was making Sherlock realize how often he watched his friend, appreciated him. They had gone for a long ride yesterday, racing through Kensington Park, and Sherlock's Samson had hardly beat John's horse. Trotting back with John ahead of him, Sherlock's eyes kept being drawn to John posting in rhythm with his horse, his strong thighs smoothly raising and lowering him off the saddle. 

Mycroft looked over the high relief metopes of men fighting centaurs, giving a small shake of the head before moving on. "Fine, you made him presentable looking and made him a little healthier. But the true test will be if he can hold up his side of a conversation. Even if you have him reading day and night, you can't cram years of quality education into him." He looked irritatingly sure of himself, a typical Mycroft look.

"That is certainly true. Many just don't have the mental capacity to handle complex ideas." Sherlock could only grin as he followed his brother through the exhibit.

They stopped at a large sculpture of Dionysus, the Greek god of wine and revelry, reclining against a boulder covered with an animal fur. It was more intact than many of the ancient pieces. Sherlock's eyes travelled over the intricately carved marble, admiring the accuracy of the nude male form. 

Beside him, Mycroft let out a soft scoff, seeing the way Sherlock was studying the sculpture. "Do you know the Greek myth of Pygmalion, Sherlock? The sculptor who carved a beautiful woman, and fell in love with his creation?"

Sherlock's light green eyes flicked over to Mycroft's. "Yes, what of it?"

"You have been so focused on John, your little project. You seem quite proud of him." Mycroft said slowly, watching Sherlock's expression. "But it feels like more than that. You are in love with the man, the man you created."

It was Sherlock's turn to scoff, and he walked out of the exhibition room, his brother close behind him, watching him like a hawk. In the less crowded hallway, Sherlock took a few deep, calming breaths, but the words from his brother kept repeating in his mind.

He shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft. Surely you know love is a myth. A way to sell books of poetry and seats to plays." He tried to sound normal, but inside he still felt strange. His stomach was tight, his heart beating too fast, his mouth feeling too dry. Subtly, he pushed his hands into his pockets to rub his damp palms against the material there. 

Cocking his head to the side a little, Mycroft's sharp eyes seemed to sense Sherlock's inner imbalance. They walked into another exhibit of the museum, an older area with medieval tapestries and paintings. "You never had deep feelings for any of your past...partners?" 

This room was empty of other visitors, and Sherlock sat down on a bench in the center with a sigh. In front of him was a painting of a village scene, with a courtier holding the arm of his lady, leaning into each other. He sent a wry look his brother's way. "Affection, regard, respect. Physical attraction at first, but that quickly wanes with time and familiarity." He shrugged. "Are you saying you love your wife?"

Mycroft chuckled softly. "Anthea is hardly one to encourage such folly. We married because it was mutually advantageous."

"How romantic." Sherlock smiled back. Most marriages of the gentry were strategic. Discreet liaisons outside the marriage were the norm once a couple heirs were produced. "Well, I'm not the marrying kind."

Mycroft wouldn't let it drop though. "Yet you have been living with John for months now, and from all accounts enjoy his company immensely."

Sherlock felt a little lost for words for a moment. "Mycroft, it is useless to try for deeper relationships with people. They start acting jealous, suspicious, demanding. It's a damn nuisance." He sighed. "And I become selfish and tyrannical. I've long settled on the fact that I am better off alone, living exactly as I like and doing precisely what I want."

Mycroft's lips pressed into a firm line, looking like he wanted to argue the point more, but then he relented, nodding. "We'll see." 

 

\---

John picked up a red apple, looking it over, before pulling out a coin to pay the grocer. He walked slowly along the street, blending in with the afternoon crowds, but keeping his eyes on two men walking ten feet away. 

His tension mounted as he watched them, catching the way they were glancing at each other and looking over people as they passed. They weren't out shopping. They were searching for their next victim. 

His heart picked up when he saw Bishop nodding towards a young man. Williams looked over the youth, and followed him when he went into a pub nearby. 

An hour later, John was following the tipsy young man with his two new friends, his heart sinking when he could tell they were heading back to the flat. It wasn't even dark yet. 

Fishing around in his pockets, he pulled out some coarse paper and a pencil, writing a short note. He folded it several times, and scanned around.

"Boy, would you like to earn a couple shillings?" He dug a coin out of his pocket. 

A redheaded boy of about ten years old looked John's way, intrigued by the offer but still looking wary of strangers. He took a step closer. "Sir?"

John held out the note. "Can you read the address I wrote on there?"

The boy's face screwed up in concentration as he looked it over. "Baker Street, sir?" 

"Good. Do you know where it is?" John worked out the rest of the details, and the boy was soon running off in the right direction. 

John settled into their familiar alcove, watching the flat, and hoping Sherlock got the message and would get here soon. As soon as it got dark, he was sure the men would be on the move.

\---

Sherlock arrived not much later, a little out of breath. John was agitated, about to leave to see what was going on. Sherlock's keen gaze read him quickly. "What happened?"

John swallowed nervously. Dealing with murderers was a lot scarier than thieves. "They found a young man, maybe only 14 or 15 years old. It looks like they got drinking with him and brought him home with them in the afternoon." 

"They are still in there?"

John shook his head, and stepped out, pulling Sherlock along with them. The sun had just gone down and it was getting darker, the streets quieting. "I wanted to wait for you, but they just came down with him again, and took him behind the building. I was about to go take a quick look."

They carefully edged between the rubbish filled passage between buildings. John stopped to peer around the corner, his eyes seeking out familiar shapes in the dark space. 

There was the outdoor privy and the well, and a neglected, overgrown garden. John stilled as he saw the men. 

Sherlock pressed against his back, looking over John's head at the scene. "That's them at the well?" His whisper was soft, against his ear. 

John nodded. The boy was being held by the taller of the men, and the shorter one was squatting down, fumbling in the darkness. At least the boy was still alive.

The shorter man stood, and when the other man shifted, John saw that the boy was either unconscious or dead, being held upright, his body flopping to the side. 

Sherlock's breath caught, and they both wondered what to do. That second of delay was a second too long.

The murderers lifted the boy, and sent him headfirst into the well. John jumped forward, wanting to run to help the boy, but Sherlock held him back. A second later, there was silence, and the killers slunk away into the back lane, leaving their grisly work behind.

"Why did you stop me? We could have saved him!" John turned to Sherlock, whispering angrily. He was against the brick wall of the building, glaring up at the taller man.

Sherlock shook his head. "You never would have been able to get him out of the well in time, and I would have been left trying to keep two murders from killing us as well as you did that." His eyes were full of regret, his tone apologetic.

It took John a few deep breaths to settle down a little, and nod in agreement. They could have easily gotten in trouble, been beyond their depth. "Why did they leave?"

Looking the direction the men had gone, Sherlock shrugged. "I think they will give the body time to cool and deal with it later, when there are less people on the streets to see them carrying it."

"I'm going to get the constable. We need help catching them." John said firmly. 

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I'll stay on watch here, or nearby if I think I'm going to be seen. If you come back and I'm not here, go straight to Anderson's. At least if we can catch him with the body, we can maybe use our eye witness accounts of the murder and the boy being at the pub with the killers." 

John paused a second, looking up at Sherlock. Since last night, he had tried to keep his distance, but in facing more danger, he couldn't resist grabbing the back of Sherlock's neck, and tugging him down for a quick, hard kiss. "Be careful."

Turning quickly, he didn't wait for Sherlock's response before walking briskly to Bow Street. 

\---

It felt like forever before he was able to return. "It's just down here, Constable." He led the older man between the buildings, his eyes searching for Sherlock. _Please, please...let him be safe._ He found that he was holding his breath, walking quietly.

There was a familiar shape, hunched over in the shadows, and John breathed in relief. "Sherlock..."

His friend straightened up, his smile hard to see in the darkness. John could feel it though, and if the constable hadn't been there, he would have gone to him. Hugged him hard. Known for sure, deep in his bones, that he was safe and sound.

"They haven't come back yet." Sherlock said softly.

"You said they threw the boy down the well? You saw them do that?" The constable looked at them both in turn.

John confirmed it. "That's right. It happened too fast for us to stop it. I think they must have knocked him out before they brought him down here."

The constable nodded. "Well, let's wait to see if they come back, like you think they will." They shifted, finding a good spot with good sight lines, where they weren't too visible. 

It was cold and cramped, very uncomfortable. But John's attention was only on the area around them; tense, watching, waiting. Ready for action. It was the heart pounding, intense focus he felt before a battle, getting in place, waiting for orders. Knowing it would be dangerous but completely necessary. 

He tensed, turning his head towards a sound coming from between the buildings. He was glad they had moved, as it was right where they had been standing before. It was Bishop and Williams, and John tapped the constable's arm. Sherlock was already shifting to a better position to spring forward. 

They watched as the men went straight to the well, and with a quick glance around, bent over it. They were soon pulling out the body, and stripping it naked. In a couple minutes, they had him in a canvas sack, and were getting ready to carry him away to their buyer.

John had given the constable the story as they walked back from the Bow Street office, and wasn't surprised when the constable followed the men. It would be best to catch the man buying the body also. 

Their path twisted through the darkest, least used streets, but John could tell they were heading towards Anderson's house. Sherlock kept up with them, his eyes glittering with the excitement of the chase.

The exchange in the doorway was quick, a soft knock and the door was opened. The constable gave John a nod and they sprung into action, John attacking the shorter man. Sherlock went through the doorway, grabbing the man trying to run up the steps. 

Surprise was on their side, and John was able to pin down Bishop fairly quickly, settling his weight firmly on the top of his thighs and holding his arms against the ground. He kept his grip firm even though his quarry slumped in defeat, not wanting to risk losing his hold.

"Good job, lads." The constable grinned at them, as exhilarated by the rush as they were. He already had Williams tied up, and soon had Bishop swearing as he yanked a rope tight around his wrists. 

John got up, now feeling the bumps and scrapes from his scuffle, his shoulder aching, and starting to throb. He opened the door wider, and chuckled. Sherlock was sprawled inelegantly over a smaller man on the staircase, looking very rumpled. 

Grabbing some rope from the constable, John had Sherlock ease off Anderson's manservant, and tied him up. He helped Sherlock to stand, and lifted a hand to the redness on his face.

"It looks like he got you good. You'll have a black eye tomorrow." His eyes quickly scanned Sherlock over, looking for other signs of damage.

Sherlock must have been doing the same. "You hurt your shoulder." His eyes were staring there.

Sighing, John tried to rotate it and winced in pain. "I think I wrenched it. It will be alright after a few days of rest."

They hauled the manservant out to the constable. He looked over the men, and the body still in its sack.

He turned to John, speaking in quiet tones. "We need to get these 3 men and the body down to the office. I'll go get help. Are you alright to stay here to guard them?"

John nodded. "Yes. Plus Sherlock will stay with me." 

Nodding, the constable turned to face the taller man, holding out his hand. "Constable Lestrade."

"Sherlock Holmes." He shook the constable's hand, the men eying each other up.

Lestrade gave him a questioning look, scanning over his plain clothing. "That is an unusual name, but I'm sure I have heard it before. Are you the man that was in the papers a few years ago? Some scandal involving a rich widow?"

John's eyes widened, and he looked at his friend with interest. Had something big happened while he had been out of the country? Sherlock, involved with a woman?

His friend shrugged, giving an easy smile back to Lestrade. "Yes, those stories were about me, but I assure you that the papers greatly exaggerated the situation."

The constable nodded. "Well, I will be back soon with the night watchman." 

\---

Hours later, John and Sherlock walked slowly back home, feeling exhausted. They had stayed on watch so many nights, and tonight had the takedown and hours of dealing with the paperwork at the station. 

They had received a lot of praise from Lestrade for their work. John felt grateful that Sherlock let John do most of the talking. Perhaps it was to stay below the authorities' notice for his own body snatching activities, but John also thought he wanted John to have a chance to shine. To prove his abilities with the place he hoped to get a position later.

John had known Lestrade for years with his sporadic thief taker jobs. But tonight he had looked at John with real respect and interest. John felt good, knowing he looked well groomed and dressed better than he had in the past. When John came back in a month, asking for a position, he knew Lestrade would remember him.

It was a step towards his possible future, but it was also ending something with Sherlock now. They wouldn't have their stakeouts, the excitement of tracking down killers, anymore. Would it feel dull to go back to their ordinary lives?

"I think I'll reschedule your dance lesson for next week." Sherlock said softly, as they climbed the stairs in the quiet house. They had both been lost in their own thoughts, not talking much.

John paused at the top, shaking his head. "I'm not that tired. I need to get started learning the dances. I can't delay it another week." Three weeks was hardly enough time to learn the complicated dances as it was. 

Sherlock stepped closer, looking down at him. "Your shoulder needs rest, John."

"It's fine..." John started, but stopped when Sherlock put his hands on his upper arms, backing him into his bedroom, and closing the door. He blinked up at Sherlock in surprise. "What..."

"Take off your shirt, John. Let me see your shoulder." Sherlock said, his eyes intent on John's. The only light in the room was the moonlight coming in through the window. 

John shook his head, turning back towards the door. "No, this isn't a good idea, Sherlock."

"What, are you afraid to partially undress in front of me? We wore less when we swam in the river." Sherlock cajoled. "Look, I'll take my shirt off too. Make you feel more comfortable." 

Arguments against that reasoning got stuck in John's throat as he watched Sherlock's long fingers quickly undoing his buttons, and pulling away his clothing. Beautiful, bare chested Sherlock. The skin he had wanted to see for so long, craving since that first kiss. 

With a tsk, Sherlock stepped closer, clearly impatient with the way John stood there, frozen. He started working on John's buttons, his gaze intent on his task.

"Sherlock, stop...," John murmured, feeling so aware of this man, filled with breathless excitement, warring with knowing this was crazy. He had to stop it. He stepped back, away from Sherlock's hands. "We can't." Not here, especially. With Donovan and Mrs. Hudson sleeping in the same house, neither of them very deep sleepers.

The younger man looked slightly annoyed. "Fine. Just show me your shoulder then, so I can see if you can still handle the lesson."

John sighed, and slipped the partially undone shirt down to reveal his bad shoulder. 

Sherlock looked it over, stepping closer, and then cupped it with his large hand. He massaged the joint, his eyes flicking to John's, watching for signs of pain. It did hurt a little, but John had withstood much worse in his army years. 

He was much more affected by standing so close to Sherlock, his nearness and light touch making John breathless, and he couldn't look away from his chest. Pale, perfect skin. 

Looking up at Sherlock, he could see the heat in his eyes, and seconds later, they were kissing. Who had kissed whom? John wasn't sure, he just knew this felt so good, so right. 

Sherlock enfolded him in his long arms, pulling him in tight, deepening the kiss. It was hungry, passionate, barely pausing for panting breaths before they both pressed closer for more. The bare skin of John's chest against Sherlock's.

He let out a low groan near John's ear when John kissed down his neck, needing to taste his skin as his hands skimmed over his warm back. As good as it was, John sighed, putting his hands on Sherlock's hips to make him step back. 

They were both breathing hard, staring at each other. 

"I want you, Sherlock, but you know we can't do this. For all those reasons you said the first night, in the flat." John explained, not wanting to hurt Sherlock's feelings, but knowing he couldn't go on. 

Sherlock shook his head. "It's because of what Lestrade mentioned, that scandal with the widow. It was just something foolish I did in my twenties. It didn't mean anything to me, really." 

John hadn't even worried about that. They both had pasts. "It's not that. It's fear of being caught. Just being involved in catching these killers is making the risk of that happening more real to me.”

Sighing, Sherlock looked down. He was a man who usually got what he wanted, and he had wanted John for weeks. "We will be discreet, John. Just in the house. Mrs. Hudson and Donovan probably already know we are attracted to each other. They won't say anything." 

"I thought I'd be forced to stay in the army my whole life. I finally have a chance for something better, Sherlock." John said softly, hoping he would understand.

Sherlock nodded, stepping back regretfully. "You are right, and when I'm not close to you, I agree. When you are near, I just want you so much, it overrides my reason." He ran a hand through his hair. "You only have a few more weeks here. We can restrain ourselves that long, I know we can." 

John nodded, pulling his shirt back into place as he left Sherlock's bedroom, crossing the hall to his own. At the end of the hall, Donovan stood, her expression neutral, likely just checking if John needed her for anything. He shook his head, wishing her a quiet goodnight, before slipping into his room.

She had obviously seen him leaving Sherlock's room, his clothing mostly undone and rumpled. He couldn't look more guilty if he tried. 

\---

-A/N: I think there will be 16 chapters total. Thanks so much for reading along so far! Lots of notes for this chapter... (sorry, not sorry) ;) 

-The British Museum: It was established in 1753 and has grown to have over 8 million pieces in its collection, one of the largest and most comprehensive in the world. There is no admission fee, and they have over 7 million visitors a year. Amongst its amazing items, it has the Rosetta Stone, which has a decree in 3 ancient languages that helped academics decipher hieroglyphics. 

-Elgin Marbles: In 1801, Thomas Bruce, 7th Earl of Elgin, was the British ambassador to the Ottoman Empire, which ruled over Greece at that time. He obtained a permit from the Sultan giving his artists access to the Parthenon and surrounding buildings in Athens. From 1801 to 1812, his agents removed about half of the surviving sculptures of this ancient site, and shipped them back to Britain, planning to use them to decorate his Scottish estate. The marble sculptures had been previously damaged by wars, in particular an explosion in 1687 when the Parthenon was used as a munitions store during Ottoman rule, which destroyed the marble roof and a lot of the artwork. 

Lord Elgin spent £70,000 (about £5.5 million today) to get them to the UK, but a costly divorce forced him to sell them. Parliament voted to buy them for £35,000 (about £2.8 million today), and they have been on display at the British Museum since 1817. The collection includes 75 m of the 160 m frieze, 15 of the 92 metopes, and 17 pedimental figures. 

It was highly controversial at the time, and remains so to this day, with many arguing that Elgin’s acts were vandalism or looting, and others seeing it as preserving and protecting these great pieces of antiquity. Greece has been working to have the Marbles returned to them since they gained their independence back from the Ottoman Empire. It has been in the news in recent years, as Amal Clooney, the barrister wife of George Clooney, was a legal advisor to the Greek government trying to secure the return of the Elgin Marbles to Athens. The Greek government has dropped the case for the time being, and is pursuing diplomatic measures instead.

-Pygmalion: This is the ancient Greek version of a Phoenician myth, about a sculptor who fell in love with a statue he created. He made offerings to Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love, and quietly wished for a bride like his statue. When he returned home, he kissed the ivory statue, and the lips felt warm. Aphrodite had changed the statue into a woman, granting his wish, and they married with her blessing.

-"They start acting jealous, suspicious, demanding. It's a damn nuisance....And I become selfish and tyrannical.": This part is from My Fair Lady, paraphrased a little from the 'I'm an Ordinary Man' song/scene. 

-Bishop and Williams: This is based on real people, and I’ve stuck to the facts as closely as possible (except for moving the date up 11 years). With the high demand and high pay for bodies by the anatomy schools, there were a few resurrection men or body snatchers who resorted to murder. The most well-known team was William Burke and William Hare, in Edinburgh. They sold the body of a tenant that died in Hare’s house, and then killed 16 other people over a ten month period in 1828. Hare confessed when they were captured and testified against Burke. Burke was hanged in front of a crowd of 25,000, and his corpse was publicly dissected in an anatomy theatre. His skeleton was given to the Edinburgh Medical School, along with his death mask and a book said to be made from his tanned skin, all of which can still be viewed at Surgeons’ Hall Museum. 

Bishop and Williams modelled their activities on Burke and Hare. They belonged to a gang of resurrection men in London. Bishop admitted to stealing and selling between 500 and 1000 bodies over a twelve year period. In 1830, Bishop rented a flat, and a few months later a suspiciously fresh corpse of a 14 year old boy was sold to King’s College School of Anatomy. The anatomist suspected the body had not been buried, and summoned the police. They searched the flat, and found items of clothing in the well and the privies. After their conviction, they admitted to offering the boy lodging at the flat, and then drugging him with rum and laudanum. When he was unconscious, they tied a rope to his feet and pitched him into the well, and he died after a brief struggle. They returned later to undress him for selling. They also killed a homeless woman and a homeless boy in the weeks before that in a similar way. They were hanged at Newgate before a crowd of 30,000, and their bodies dissected in an anatomy theatre. 

In response to these huge criminal cases, the Anatomy Act was passed in 1832 that provided for adequate, legitimate supply of corpses for medical schools. This took away the demand for bodies to be taken from graves, as the schools were given access to unclaimed bodies from prisons and workhouses, and bodies donated by the next of kin for science or in exchange for the price of burial. 

Movie Tie-in: There’s a 2010 british black comedy called ‘Burke and Hare’, starring Simon Pegg and Andy Serkis. It’s quite funny…definitely worth a watch!


	14. Chapter 14

"What have you been up to, _cherie_?" The woman gave Sherlock a flirtatious look as she took in his black eye, and the other visible scrapes. 

Sherlock chuckled. "Just a little scuffle. I'm fine. Mr. Watson got injured worse."

Her hazel eyes widened, and she walked over to John, looking him over quite thoroughly. He swallowed a bit nervously. "Oh, you have hurt your shoulder. We shall be careful with that." 

She was dressed in a lilac day dress, with white lace trim along the neckline, framing her generous cleavage in a most distracting way. Her ginger hair was swept up into an elaborate swirl of curls.

"Um, yes, I'm sure I will be fine, Madame Benoit." John struggled to keep his eyes on her face. 

With a knowing glint, she moved him into position, placing his one hand on her back and resting hers on his shoulder lightly. "Now, we shall try this first with no music. Step forward with your left foot."

John followed her instructions, finding it strangely intimate to be standing so close to this beautiful woman and touching her hand and back. No wonder people still found this dance so scandalous. 

"Good. Now step to the side with your right foot, and step together." Madame Benoit was a patient teacher, walking John through the basic box step motions. They were soon doing the steps together smoothly as she counted out the beats. 

She smiled warmly, and John returned it. He had only been to country dances occasionally over the years, nothing as formal as Almack's would be. But the dancing so far looked to be fun. 

"Now, we will try a turn. Drop your right arm, and lift your left arm. I will do a turn underneath it." 

John followed the instructions, raising his left arm, but his sore shoulder gave a sharp pain. 

_"Mon dieu,_ that is not good for you." Madame Benoit's warm eyes looked at John with concern. "Here, watch as I do the step with my husband instead."

Monsieur Benoit stepped forward, clasping his wife with easy familiarity, and demonstrating the move smoothly. He was a couple inches taller than John, with dark hair and large brown eyes. They made a striking couple.

The pianist began to play, and the dance instructors waltzed effortlessly around the room. Sherlock came to John's side. "What do you think, John?"

"Well, I think it will be quite fun to master this, actually. I look forward to going to the dance, seeing everyone dressed up." John confessed. 

Sherlock shook his head. "In this we differ. Mycroft is always encouraging me to attend balls and Almack's, but I haven't been to one for years." 

The couple stopped dancing, not even out of breath. "Mr. Holmes, did I hear you correctly? You have not danced in years?" Madame Benoit drew him forward. "Perhaps we will refresh your memory, since Monsieur Watson's shoulder is bothering him."

Monsieur Benoit stood with John as his wife danced with Sherlock. "Have you been in England long?" 

" _Oui,_ about twenty years now." Monsieur Benoit was around John's age. "There is nothing to go back to France for; this is our home now." 

John nodded. Many French aristocracy had fled the country around that time. "It must have been hard for you, making such a big change."

The dark haired man gave a small shrug. "Amelina's English is better than mine. I must admit adjusting to working was the hardest part." 

They turned back to watch Sherlock dancing with Madame Benoit. She looked small and delicate in his arms, her head tilted up, exchanging frequent looks as she gave him instructions. To John, their form seemed good, but Monsieur was chuckling softly.

"Your friend is a handsome man, but he lacks grace." Monsieur Benoit explained, leaning closer to John. 

Watching Sherlock, John could see he wasn't as smooth in his steps as the instructors, but he seemed to be getting by. His hand was large against Madame Benoit's back, holding her close.

They had a small misstep, and Sherlock's low chuckle came across the room, smiling down at his partner as they found their footing and continued. Something twisted inside John's stomach at seeing that.

"Um, you know, my shoulder isn't that bad. I think I'll practice some more." John said to Monsieur Benoit, and stepped back into the dancing area.

He was soon dancing with Madame Benoit again. She practiced the box step with him, and moves that didn't involve raising his left arm. Her instructions were clear, and he soon found himself smiling down at her as they spun around the drawing room. The furniture had been moved away, giving an open area for this practice.

Looking up, he was surprised to see Sherlock dancing with Monsieur Benoit. The shorter man was talking quickly, getting Sherlock to stand straighter, and hold his arms perpendicular to the floor. Sherlock's green eyes were intent as he concentrated, watching his partner for feedback. 

John's stomach twisted again, and he faltered a step. Madame Benoit gave him a concerned look. "Monsieur Watson, are you alright?" 

He stopped dancing, dropping his arms. "Perhaps I should stop for the day. I'm sure I will be better by your next lesson."

"But of course." Madame Benoit bowed her head to him, and he walked out of the drawing room, leaving Sherlock to complete the lesson.

In his own bedroom, John flopped down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. This was ridiculous. There was no denying he was jealous, simply jealous, of seeing Sherlock dancing with both of the instructors. 

Seeing Sherlock laughing with the flirty French woman had been hard. He usually looked oblivious to female attention. Around Molly, he teased her and looked at her fondly, but always in a friendly way only. There had been an appreciation in the way he held Madame Benoit, in the way he held her gaze and smiled. 

Was that how he had been with the widow? John didn't even know her name, but could picture a young woman, rich and dressed beautifully. Not held back by societal dictates, from the way she was mentioned with scandals. It was easy to picture Sherlock being beguiled by a confident woman like that. 

The way he had been with Monsieur Benoit had been unsettling in a different way. They hadn't been flirting or even smiling at each other. But Sherlock had been gazing down at the man, listening closely to his instructions, their bodies in sync. There had been a physical connection between them.

Had Sherlock had many partners in the past? He kissed and touched John confidently, seeming comfortable with his body and sex. How had he gotten that way? Was it many partners, or just one or two, who showed him? Taught him? What had he done with them? 

Lacking knowledge of his previous partners, John's imagination put the Benoits into the roles. Picturing Madame Benoit's beautiful red hair spread out on a pillow as Sherlock kissed over her fair skin, moaning as his large hand cupped her breast. Sherlock's chest arching up as Monsieur Benoit's lips worked downwards. 

Squeezing his eyes closed tight, John tried pushing the thoughts away. It wasn't his business who Sherlock got involved with, either in his past or his future. He was a free, unattached man.

\---

Supper was tense. Sherlock kept shooting him curious looks, obviously trying to figure out why John was being moody and withdrawn. 

John sighed, trying to think of an explanation he could tell Sherlock instead of the truth. He cut into his beef dish, enjoying the flaky crust and juicy meat inside. He'd miss Mrs. Hudson's cooking when he left.

Finally, he just set down his cutlery. "Sherlock, do you think I could have the dance lessons on my own? I think I'd be able to concentrate better without you there." 

Sherlock's eyebrows drew down slightly. "I fail to see how my being there would make the slightest difference. And I need to brush up on my skills too."

John barely kept from rolling his eyes in annoyance. "Then schedule a lesson with them before or after mine." Maybe it would cost more, but Sherlock could afford it for a few weeks.

Sherlock huffed, not bothering to answer. 

"Are we going to the Royal Academy Exhibition with Molly tomorrow?" The outing had been mentioned before, but John wasn't sure if it was ever finalized. 

With a sigh, Sherlock finished his meal and looked back at John. "Yes, and she invited everyone to come with us. Mary and her brother, Janine, and that Colonel."

John grinned slightly. "Well, she could hardly just invite only the Colonel. That would seem too obvious."

Sherlock did roll his eyes at that. "I'll never understand these elaborate courting rituals. They obviously like each other. Can't they just say that and be together, and not get the rest of us mixed up in it?"

"They need time to get to know each other, Sherlock. To see if they'll suit." John was amused at Sherlock's crankiness. 

Taking a long sip of his wine, Sherlock smiled a little. "Perhaps we should just go back to the ancient Celtic practice of handfasting, and avoid all this prop and ceremony. Two people that are attracted to each other would just bind their hands together and make an oath to stay together for a year and a day. At the end of the period, they could chose to stay together or to part, no hard feelings."

His smirk told John that he knew the idea was scandalous, and he was just trying to get a reaction out of him. "Live together as a couple for a full year?" He scoffed at the thought. "I doubt many couples would stay together."

"The Ancient Greeks thought there were four forms of love. _Storge, philia, eros and agape._ There is the love of family members, knowing they will always a part of your life, connected that way. The love of friends, or love of the mind." Sherlock seemed lost in his thoughts, sipping his wine. 

John couldn't look away. How had they even gotten on this topic? He wanted to hear more about Sherlock's views though. "What point are you trying to make?"

"Those handfasted couples had commitment and affection for each other. Having a year together tested if the other two types of love were there." Sherlock set down his glass to pour more wine. He filled John's glass as well. " _Eros_ is the love of the body, and that passion can fade quickly, sometimes in only a few quick weeks or months. The true test is if _agape_ is there. That is what will keep the handfasted couple together when the year is done."

John sipped his wine. He had gained an appreciation for the French and Italian wines Sherlock often served. " _Agape_? What does that translate to? I'm rusty on Ancient Greek." Perhaps the wine was hitting him harder than he thought.

Sherlock's green eyes caught John's. "Love of the soul."

John's heart was pounding hard, feeling a little breathless, as he shared that intense gaze with Sherlock. Finally, he looked away. He took a long sip of wine, finishing his glass. "Um, yes, well...I'm going to bed. Feeling a little tired."

Arching an eyebrow, Sherlock took another sip of his drink. "Already? Stay. I was enjoying our discussion."

John got up, pushing his chair back in place. "Another night, perhaps." And he made his escape.

\---

In his bedroom, John stripped down to his drawers, not bothering with a night shirt. He laid in bed, thinking about what Sherlock had said. Did he love Sherlock?

Certainly, he felt affection and friendship towards him, enjoying his company most of the time. When he wasn't being an annoying ass. John smirked to himself, thinking of the heated debates they sometimes had, both arguing passionately for their side of an issue. Usually failing to convince the other, but able to agree to disagree. 

The attraction between them was also undeniable. Was Sherlock right that the passion, the lust, only lasted a few weeks or months? John had never had the luxury of having a lover long enough to find out. A night or two were all he could usually get time for, always on the move with the army.

Well, it didn't matter anyways. He would be gone in a few weeks. 

Feeling frustrated, John got out of bed. Things seemed like they were spinning out of control at times. He took a few deep breaths, calming down. He just needed to focus on getting ready for Almack's. Feeling comfortable with everything, as much as he could, before he got there. He needed to win this bet. 

Thinking back on the dance lesson, he recalled Madame Benoit's instructions. Closing his eyes, he brought his arms up into position, imagining her dancing with him, and went through the steps. 

A soft knock on the door interrupted him a little later. It was probably just Donovan, checking if he needed anything else for the night. 

He opened the door a crack, not bothering to slip a robe on. Donovan had seen him naked many times, after all, and was completely unfazed. 

"Oh, Sherlock." John was surprised to see him in the doorway, and instantly felt self conscious. He crossed his arms over his chest. "What do you want?"

It took a couple heartbeats for Sherlock to drag his eyes away from John's bare chest. "Just to tell you Molly wants us at the exhibit at 10 am, before it gets too crowded." He paused, not leaving the doorway. "What were you doing? I could hear you moving around in here."

John shrugged. "Just practicing the dance steps."

Sherlock peered into his bedroom and scoffed. "Well, there's hardly room to turn around in there. Come to my room." His large hand grabbed John's wrist, pulling him across the hallway before he could object.

It was the larger bedroom, but it felt crowded, standing facing Sherlock. He could still feel the affects of the wine earlier, and knew Sherlock was as well. This was a recipe for disaster, but it didn't stop John from placing his right hand against Sherlock's back, and clasping his left hand. 

Sherlock's hand rested on his shoulder, and they looked at each other as they began to dance, just a simple box step, doing it again and again. John got lost in it, moving in an unheard rhythm with the taller man, but so in sync with each other. Sherlock had already taken off his jacket and waistcoat, and his linen shirt wasn't much of a barrier. John could feel his warmth, the way his body shifted as they moved. Could feel Sherlock's hand on his bare shoulder. 

They bumped against the bed, and Sherlock almost lost his balance. John grabbed him to keep him from falling, holding him close against his bare chest. Sherlock was so near, so delicious. 

"Shite." John said to himself, and kissed Sherlock, hard. 

Sherlock was kissing him just as intensely, his hands clutching at John's bare skin, making him moan and shift even closer. The move upset their balance, and they fell onto the bed, tangled together. 

John crawled into a better position, right over Sherlock, kissing down his neck. Arching his back up in response, Sherlock moaned, his hand going into John's short hair. 

Sherlock looked beautiful in the low lamplight of the bedroom, his clothing rumpled and body splayed out over the bed. John worked on the buttons of his shirt, spreading them open to kiss lower and lower. 

When he had the shirt all open, Sherlock surprised him by rolling them over so John was on his back. He sat up, straddling John's hips, looking down at his aroused expression with satisfaction as he drew off the shirt, and tossed it to the side. He got off John, and quickly shucked off his tight pantaloons, before crawling back onto the bed, back onto John.

"There, now I can properly feel your hands on me." Sherlock gave a delightfully dirty smile before he leaned forward to kiss John again. 

John loved the position, sharing long, deep kisses as his hands ran over the silky skin of Sherlock's back. So warm and responsive, Sherlock often shivering in sensation, or groaning in helpless arousal against John's lips. 

His hands daringly went lower, cupping Sherlock's ass, and the taller man gasped, pushing closer against John. He could feel the hardness of his arousal against his own, for the first time, and bucked up helplessly into the sensation. Sherlock chuckled near his ear, kissing and nibbling at the skin there as he rotated his hips in a teasing little circle. 

John fell back, panting. "Sherlock, stop, it's too much." 

Lifting his hips slightly, Sherlock gave him a concerned look. "You don't like this?" His green eyes were looking vulnerable, a little hurt.

Groaning, John gave him a quick hard kiss. "I'm in danger of liking it too much, Sherlock." 

Understanding dawned in Sherlock's expression, and he shifted back slightly, slipping his hand into John's drawers. John moaned as his hand stroked along his bare cock. "It's good, John. Let go. I want to see your pleasure." 

The words and the firm stroking were too much to resist. John cried out as he peaked, shuddering against Sherlock, lost to the incredible sensations.

He opened his eyes to Sherlock watching him closely, a mixture of heat and tenderness in his gaze. Looking down, he saw Sherlock pull his hand out of his drawers, and grab his discarded shirt to wipe his hand. "What's Donovan going to make of that?"

Sherlock gave a weak chuckle as he rolled off John, lying on his back. "He'll probably think 'it's about time'. It's certainly what I'm thinking."

John couldn't resist leaning down to kiss Sherlock, relieved at finally being able to kiss this man without restraint. Taking his time to explore his lips, teasing him with little flicks of his tongue. Sherlock was shifting under him, panting in response, and John realized how aroused he still was. 

Swallowing his nerves, he bravely undid the buttons of Sherlock's drawers, leaving the flaps open. He looked his fill, and then traced light fingertips over the sensitive skin, until Sherlock was moaning for more. He stroked him the way he liked it himself, firm hard strokes. 

Sherlock came apart under his touch, glorious in his pleasure. John tucked against his side, feeling his breathing slowing down. 

Eventually Sherlock rubbed the shirt over his chest, and turned on his side to face John. He looked relaxed and happy, and John couldn't resist kissing him lightly, lazily. 

He was starting to feel sleepy, and he stretched, yawning. Sitting up, he swung his legs to sit on the edge of the bed. 

"Sleep here, with me." Sherlock ran a light hand down his back. 

Shaking his head, John got up. He leaned down to give Sherlock a quick kiss. "No, I think it best if I sleep in my bed."

Pouting slightly, Sherlock clearly disagreed. "Donovan and Mrs. Hudson won't care. They won't say anything."

Giving Sherlock's hand a squeeze, John let go. "Goodnight, Sherlock." He slipped into the washroom to clean up before heading to his small, empty bed.

As he closed his eyes, trying to fall asleep, he couldn't get over what had happened. It felt almost like a dream. What would Sherlock be like tomorrow? Would he want to continue this, or had it been enough to satisfy his interest?

\---

-A/N: The slow burn is heating up a little. ;) 

-French Emigration: Between 1789-1815, thousands of French escaped the political turmoil, fearing losing their lives. They settled in neighbouring countries, like Prussia, Germany, Austria and the United Kingdom. On January 1, 1792, a law was in place that émigrés' land and possessions in France would be confiscated and sold, and they would face execution if they tried to return later. The émigrés were usually very poor, and aristocrats had to work for the first time in their lives, often teaching fencing, dancing or the French language. 

-The Waltz: In the 1750's, it was a peasant dance in Germany and Austria. By the 1770's, it was being danced in Vienna, and causing quite a stir. The close hold, the partners facing each other and with an arm around her back, was considered too 'familiar' and not proper. By 1813, it was being danced in London, but still controversial to some for another decade or so. 

-Beef Wellington: The supper of a beef fillet, coated with pate, and baked in a flakey pastry was a well-established part of English cuisine. There is some differing views of how/when it came to be called Beef Wellington, and if there was any direct association with the hero of Waterloo. It was likely a renaming of a popular dish at a later time.


	15. Chapter 15

"Now, remember that you can't interfere with John tonight.  You can only watch his behavior from a distance."  Sherlock sat down on the sofa and crossed his legs.

Mycroft scoffed.  "Fine, but you have to keep your distance from him as well.  No last minute coaching.  Either he learned your lessons or he didn't."

They were both dressed elegantly in black tie, with silk breeches and elaborately tied cravats.  Sherlock had raised none of his typical objections when Donovan had dressed him in his best, and tamed his curls.  

Getting up, Mycroft walked to the decanter and poured himself a drink.  He did a half turn, holding an empty glass up questioningly towards Sherlock, and got a small shake of the head in response.  

"There's one thing I can't stand about you, your confounded complacency."  He sat down, sipping the amber liquid slowly.  "At a moment like this, with so much at stake, it's utterly indecent that you don't need a glass of port."

Sherlock gave his brother an amused smirk, enjoying his nervousness.  It had been a long three months, but he felt confident that John would handle himself well.  He wore fine clothes like a natural, rode well, and was a polite conversationalist whenever they had been out to society events.  

Mrs. Hudson entered the drawing room first, a pleased smile on her face.  "It's hard to believe it's the same man who came here in torn, muddy clothes."

Sherlock and Mycroft stood, hearing footsteps on the staircase.  He looked at his brother, wanting to catch his expression as he saw John now.  

He wasn't disappointed.  His normal serene brother was clearly shocked at the transformation.  Speechless.  

Donovan and Mrs. Hudson were gushing over John, telling him how handsome he looked.  Sherlock stepped to the side to have a better view between the people surrounding John.  

His hair was freshly trimmed, and looked lighter from the time he spent outside riding.  His skin had a healthy glow and a light tan, as befitting a gentleman who enjoyed outdoor sports.  The jacket Molly had chosen was a dark indigo blue, with an ivory shirt and breeches.  The clothes fit his muscular frame well, showing off his powerful legs and slim torso.  Sherlock had never seen him looking better.  

Stepping back, he went to the side table a poured himself a glass of port, and downed it quickly.  Taking a deep breath, he set the empty glass down and stepped forward.  "Enough, enough.  Let's be on our way."  

They were soon in Mycroft's elegant coach, the plush cushioned seats making the ride quite comfortable.  He could tell John was a little keyed up, so he kept Mycroft occupied chatting about the country estate.

As they neared the assembly hall, the roads became congested with fine coaches and teams of horses.  John was looking out the window at the scene.  Mycroft's long leg was bouncing slightly with nerves.  

At the entrance, Mycroft pulled out the entrance vouchers.  "You wouldn't believe the favors I had to cash in to get these for you, so late in the Season."  He turned to chat with the patronesses, his face in a charming smile, introducing his brother and then John Watson, as an old family friend just returned from the continent.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief when they were let through with a nod.  Their clothing and deportment had passed the inspection of the highly particular women.  

Not far from the entrance, Molly waved to them, and they joined her party.  She was in a silk gown with short sleeves, the dusty rose color beautiful against her complexion.  Her happy expression made Mycroft look at her more closely.  

"Mycroft, so good to see you after so long."  She leaned forward to accept his quick kisses on each cheek.  "Let me introduce you to my fiancé, Colonel Miller."  She pulled the beaming man forward, an engagement ring sparkling on her hand.

As Mycroft chatted with the man, John and Sherlock greeted Molly, Mary, Richard and Janine.  They all complimented John on his clothing.  

"So, you promised to point out the three debutantes best for me to dance with."  John said when the greetings were done.  He seemed focused and calm, ready to face the challenges of the evening, and Sherlock felt a surge of pride for his protégé.  

Mary smiled his way.  "We have each picked a lady for you.  Come with me and I'll introduce you to mine."

Nodding, John walked with Mary through the crowds.  Sherlock watched for glimpses of her teal silk gown in the crush of people.  On the balcony above the crowd, the musicians were playing lively tunes for the dancers.  It was all up to John now.  

Moving to stand with Mycroft off to the side, they were both tense as they watched Mary introducing John to her acquaintance, the young woman looking charmed as John smiled and chatted with her.

"Lydia Woodhouse."  Mycroft said softly.  "£3,000 a year."  It was a healthy dowry, and the pretty young woman would have her pick of suitors.  

It wasn't long until he was leading her out on the dance floor, and Sherlock snuck a pleased smile at Mycroft's irritated scowl.  John bowed to his partner and confidently collected his partner in a close hold for their waltz.  

John had taken to the dance lessons well once his shoulder was better, working hard at his lessons and practicing with Sherlock.  They usually kept it to the drawing room after that first night.  Despite their difference in height, John kept to the lead, guiding Sherlock confidently around the room.

Janine stole him away next, her deep carmine red gown contrasting beautifully with her dark upswept hair.  He was soon dancing with the debutante she had chosen.  

Nudging his brother's shoulder, Sherlock grinned in satisfaction.  "Anne Dashwood."  The daughter of a rich viscount was well known for her beauty and charity work.  Her blond hair was complimented by the light golden yellow of her dress.

Two down, only one to go.  Molly approached the men, smiling proudly.  "Doesn't John look great out there?"

Mycroft huffed.  "He looks passable, but he's hardly picking anyone challenging."

Molly had known Mycroft her whole life, looking up to him as her oldest brother practically.  She usually deferred to his opinions.  

Sherlock was surprised to see a flash of heat in her eyes at Mycroft's comment.  "I was going to have him dance with Lucy Knightley, but now I have someone else in mind."

Standing straighter, she shot Mycroft a defiant glare that somehow included Sherlock as well by the time she was done.  Sherlock watched her as she crossed the room to gather John, her stride fast.

He watched them stepping away from the others to talk alone, and John was shaking his head.  Molly motioned back to the Holmes brother's, and John glanced their way before finally nodding back at Molly.  He straightened up, drawing back his shoulders like a soldier at attention, and followed Molly as she set forth again through the crush of people.

Sherlock chuckled when he heard Mycroft swear softly beside him, but didn't spare him a glance as he watched the unfolding action.  He couldn't help but grin as his shy friend and the penniless soldier walked right up to Charlotte Bingley's group.

Tall for a woman, she looked even taller and more imposing with her auburn hair swept up dramatically.  Diamond pins held the elaborate structure in place.  Her ivory dress set off her fair complexion perfectly, the imported Italian lace draping elegantly over her slender frame.  Her most striking feature, her aqua eyes, went to Molly and then flicked to John, a slight look of irritation on her pretty face at their interruption.

Although in her first season, confidence radiated off her.  As Lord Nelson's niece, a beauty, and wealthy, she had suitors flocking around her from the start.  Her dance card was definitely full.  Just approaching her could cause offence, and the patronesses would easily kick out anyone who bothered this powerful woman.

The only sign of tension Sherlock was showing was biting lightly into his lower lip.  But inside he was holding his breath.  This was the true test if John had learned his lessons these past few months.  In a minute, they would all know if the bet was won or lost.  It all came down to this one temperamental woman.

John leaned closer, speaking to Miss Bingley directly, her head tipped towards him to hear over the crowd.  When she pulled back, her eyes were holding John's, a chuckle escaping.  With a nod, she placed her hand on his arm, and he led her away for a dance.

Sherlock could feel most of the room noticing this, and they were soon nudging their friends, asking who John was.

"...I've seen him down at the Royal Academy. He's a surgeon visiting from America...."

"...I've seen him playing cricket at Vauxhall with some army officers. Didn't he make a fortune in the navy?..."

"...he's known the Holmes family for years... only recently back in England..."

All around them, people were gossiping about John, and many different stories already circulating. Sherlock was internally thanking Molly for insisting John be seen at various society events, as it all lent credence to his background as a gentleman.

Smirking widely, he turned to Mycroft, holding out his hand.  Rolling his eyes, his brother dug into his inner breast pocket, and handed Sherlock an envelope.  It was quite satisfying to take the money, irrefutable proof he had won.

\---

"What did you say to Miss Bingley to get her to dance with you?"  Sherlock asked a couple hours later, in the back of a hackney.

John looked tired but happy.  After dancing with Miss Bingley, he had been surrounded by curious people, chatting with everyone and dancing with several ladies he was introduced to.  If he was good enough for Miss Bingley, he was obviously a big enough catch for the other unmarried ladies of society.  He ended the night by dancing with Mary, Janine and Molly, thanking them for all their help.

He shrugged.  "I searched for a novel way to catch her attention.  She is beautiful enough to get men complimenting her often."  John looked proud of his accomplishment.  "I leaned close, so only she could hear, and asked her if her spirit was as fiery as her hair."

Nodding, Sherlock gave a motion to carry on.  "What did she say to that?"

"She said it was.  So, I held out my arm to her, looked her straight in the eye, and asked her to prove it by dancing with me."  John grinned, clearly still buzzing from the whole evening. 

Sherlock's hand went to John's thigh, giving it a little squeeze.  "You dared Charlotte Bingley to dance with you?"  He laughed, John joining in, sharing the audacity of John's actions, and that it had worked.  

He looked at John with great fondness when their laughter settled down.  Reaching into his inner jacket pocket, he pulled out Mycroft's envelope.  He took out his share of the winnings and passed the envelope to John.  "£100, as we agreed on the first day we met.  You have come so far, John.  You did me proud tonight."

Accepting the envelope, John's hand trembled slightly.  It was more money than he had ever held in his hand before.  Three times his annual salary in the army.  In London, if he was careful with it, it would cover food and a place to live for a few months at least.  He stashed the envelope away carefully in his pocket. 

The hackney stopped and John looked around, startled out of his thoughts about the future.  They weren't at the house.  "What are we doing here?"

Sherlock just grinned, obviously excited about something, and got out of the hackney.  He grabbed John's arm, and led him down some steps once they were alone.

John saw now that they were at the flat, but was still confused.  They hadn't been back here since the night they gotten soaked, and he'd kissed Sherlock.  

Watching John closely, Sherlock unlocked the door and drew him inside.  John's breath caught, looking around in wonder.  There was already a fire going, heating the space and giving off a warm glow.  The walls looked freshly painted, the white walls looking bright and clean.  The table was set with an elegant tablecloth and fine dishes.  A delicious scent of beef stew filled the air.  

"I wanted to have a private celebration with you, John."  Sherlock said softly, undoing his coat and slipping the material down his arms.  "Get comfortable, and we can eat a good meal.  I know you were too nervous to eat much earlier."

John's stomach gave an audible grumble, practically on cue, and they both chuckled.  He took off his coat and undid the elaborate necktie, breathing easier for the first time in hours.  By the time he sat at the table, Sherlock already had the meal served and was pouring red wine.  

They ate in companionable silence, digging into the food and drink with gusto. Crusty bread slathered with fresh butter, the thick hearty stew, and the full bodied wine went together perfectly.  John enjoyed every bite.  

_Would this be the last supper they ever ate together?  The last time he ate such a delicious meal?  The last time they looked at each other over a glass of wine?_

The questions popped into his mind, and John gazed over at his dinner companion.  Sherlock had looked resplendent tonight in his black tie, the dark coat and breeches suiting his slim frame.  Many debutantes had been smiling his way hopefully all night, even more intrigued in the mysterious man when he chatted with his wealthy brother most of the night instead of socializing.  He had only danced with Molly, Mary and Janine.  But even across the crowded assembly hall, John had gazed his way often, feeling him watching, knowing it was just for the bet.  

His eyes kept being drawn to Sherlock, wondering if he might see an attractive young woman and get diverted.  John had kept his focus, concentrating on winning the bet, when all he wanted was to stay by Sherlock all night.  It would have been wonderful to pull him on to the dance floor, whirling together to the live music, swept up in the energy of the evening. 

Sherlock had barely nodded in greeting at most women, discouraging small talk.  Besides their friends, he had only given his attention to John and Mycroft.  It had been a heady feeling, knowing Sherlock was watching all night, knowing he was cheering on his performance.

"I'm happy tonight went well.  Thank you for all these months of helping me.  I will miss reading and discussing great books with you, our rides in the park.  I'll miss Donovan, Mrs. Hudson, Billy, and Molly."  John took a fortifying sip of wine.   "And I'll miss you, Sherlock."

His light green eyes seemed to glow in the firelight as Sherlock shook his head slowly.    "What are you talking about, John?"

John gave a small huff.  This was hard enough as it was.  He didn't need Sherlock being in denial of the reality of the situation.  "I'm leaving tomorrow, Sherlock.  Packing up my clothes, as we agreed, and going to find my own place.  Find a job, hopefully working with Lestrade."  

It had been so busy in these last weeks, fitting in the dance lessons and all the other last minute things for tonight.  And frequently, they got distracted, stealing quick kisses or a subtle caress.  They were always in Sherlock's bed early at night, and Sherlock always snuck into John's early in the morning.  John seemed to think it more discreet if they slept in separate beds.  Sherlock had found the idea ridiculous, and they had debated it until coming to that compromise.  

"What nonsense are you spouting now, John?  Why the hell would you move out?  We have your bedroom all set up comfortably for you, and it's hardly any more work for Mrs. Hudson or Donovan to have you around."  Sherlock's eyebrows were drawn down slightly.  

John just shook his head slowly.  Why was Sherlock making this even harder than it already was?  "That wasn't our agreement, Sherlock.  You said I could stay at your house for three months, until the bet was done.  You have lived up to your side.  Now I will live up to mine, and go on my way."

Reaching across the table, Sherlock's large hand covered John's.  "Things have changed so much between us since that first, fateful day.  You've changed, I've changed."  He glanced down at their linked hands.  "We've changed.  You have to stay, continue on as we have been."

John's heart beat faster at his touch, and the earnest look in his eyes.  The words sent him over the moon, and for a few minutes, he just gazed back at this beautiful, enigmatic man sitting across from him, and pictured living the rest in their lives together like that.  It would be so wonderful, being in their happy world together like that.

But reality pushed its way into that fantasy, and John's eyes dropped to his empty plate.  "I wish I could, Sherlock, but you know it's impossible.  We have been pushing our luck already, having me staying at your place all these months.  People will start talking and speculating, if we continue on this way."

Sherlock scoffed.  "People will always talk.  There is no stopping it.  It's best to ignore that and just live your life as you want to."

John looked back at his friend, and knew this was how Sherlock had lived his life.  He was well off enough to live comfortably, answering to no one.  Aside from an occasional dutiful appearance with Mycroft, he mostly ignored others of his class.  He had no interest in marrying or having children.  From occasional comments, it sounded like he had quick affairs with people he was attracted to, never lasting more than a few months.  Doing exactly what he wanted, living exactly as he pleased.

John had never felt such freedom.  Living with Sherlock had been the closest to it he had ever experienced, but he knew there was an end date for that hedonistic period of indulgence.  It was a sweet vacation from the reality of his life.  

Giving Sherlock's hand a squeeze back, John regretfully let go.  "I wish we could, but we both have seen the papers, seen what people do to suspected sodomites.  If they almost executed Viscount Courtney, what chance would we have?  He's richer and more powerful than Mycroft, and still had to flee to America.  It's impossible, Sherlock.  It's better if we just have a clean break now."

Standing up, Sherlock glared down at John.  "No. You are staying with me, and that's that.  We are smart enough to avoid any trouble.  Outside of the house, we can tell people you are my research assistant.  Keep our distance from each other.  Inside the house, we can just be ourselves.  Donovan and Mrs. Hudson know the truth, and will keep our secrets."

John didn't know if he should feel pleased or exasperated at Sherlock's insistence.  He had never thought Sherlock would be like this, had thought he had accepted that John would he leaving when the three months were done.  

Getting up as well, John shook his head.  "I can't just stay and be your kept man, Sherlock.  Aside from the danger of being caught, there's my need to find a good job, and support myself.  It's been nice living in your world for a while, but it's time I go back where I belong."

Sherlock looked down his nose as John, his eyes narrowing.  "Do you already gave a job lined up?  A place to stay?  A perfect little life all ready to go?"  It was clear he wasn't used to people denying him what he wanted.  

Feeling irked at the dismissive tone, John felt his stomach tense and he glared back at Sherlock.  "No, not yet, but I've been taking care of myself for years.  I can figure it out, Sherlock."

Grabbing the wine bottle, Sherlock poured himself another glass and downed it.  "Yeah, that was completely evident when we met.  You were dirty, starving, and wearing torn clothes."  He looked at John, challenging him to refute the simple facts.

John didn't respond well to Sherlock judging him like that.  He had such an easy life.  What did he know about scrambling for work and for food?  Overcoming serious injury to find he couldn't work because of the lingering effects?  All things considered, John had done better than many in similar situations.  Many had drowned their sorrows in gin, or worse vices.  It showed how little Sherlock truly knew him that he made a comment like that, and John sighed.

"You have your version of the facts, I have mine."  John finally cooled down enough to say.  "Look, let's go home and sleep."  The tension of the whole day was crashing down in him now, and this disagreement with Sherlock was making him feel even more exhausted.

Sherlock must have seen it, as his eyes softened, and he stepped forward, taking John into his arms.  The hug was just what John needed, and he sunk into it, embracing Sherlock just as tightly.  Leaving tomorrow was necessary, but still scary.  Doing it without his new friends made it even more so.  

"I wanted tonight to be special for us, John."  Sherlock said softly, and drew him over to the side of the room.  The single bed was gone, a large double bed there instead, with fine linens and thick blankets.    "Would you sleep here with me, just for tonight?"

It was the one thing he had held back on doing with Sherlock these last few weeks.  He had given into all his other urges, exploring every sensation with Sherlock.  Giving and taking pleasure, savouring his lover's deep moans, their mutual openness and trust.  But every night, he had disentangled himself from Sherlock's long limbs, kissing him softly goodnight, and gone to his own bed to sleep.  Needing to keep that separate for his own peace of mind, knowing as hard as it would be to leave, it would be even harder afterwards if they did this.  

"I can't, Sherlock.  We've discussed this."  John said regretfully.  He reached over for his coat, knowing they had to leave now.  Go back to the house.  

Sherlock turned John back to face him, his large hands holding him in place as his head dipped.  The last few weeks, they had kissed hundreds of times, but never like this before.  Sherlock's lips were firm, teasing John, easily getting him panting in response.  

He pulled the coat from John's hand, tossing it to the side, before kissing down his neck, sending shivers of desire through John.  They were soon stretched out on the bed, fumbling to undo each other's clothes, before John had a chance to even think.  

So often in recent weeks, they shared jokes and teased each other, intensifying all day, until they hardly made it through supper.  They left behind unfinished glasses of brandy by the fire to race to Sherlock's bedroom, only breathing easier when they shut the door and could kiss fully.  Long, hot, desperate kisses.  

Stripping each other had become all part of their frantic dance, hands and mouths teasing the skin as it came into view.  Driving each other into distraction.  John fell into it tonight, kissing Sherlock back just as passionately, his hands fumbling eagerly over buttons and fasteners, pushing fabric down, away.  Finally, Sherlock was gloriously naked, stretched out beside him.  

Maybe it was admiring how fantastic Sherlock had looked all night, knowing how many admiring looks he had gotten from men and women at Almack's, or maybe it was just the simmering desire he always felt around Sherlock.  Either way, John couldn't resist taking his time to worship his lover, to appreciate every inch of his skin with kisses and soft caresses.  This was their last night together, and he wanted to savour every sensation.

Sherlock was just as eager and passionate, responding beautifully, and making John moan in unrestrained desire.  It was freeing, being in this flat, able to be noisy.  Just being themselves.  

  ---

John woke up, Sherlock wrapped tight around him, even in sleep.  He shook his head ruefully at it, knowing that there was no way he could have pulled himself away from Sherlock last night.  Every night, it got harder to do so, and Sherlock had been sweetly kissing him as he got sleepy, glowing from hours of incredible pleasure.  

He had sunk down into it, indulging himself this one last time.  It was the third time they had woken up together, and John smiled as he thought of the first night, worried that Sherlock might try something during the night.  Little did he know then how exciting it was to be woken up by an eager lover, fumbling together in the darkness with bitten-off chuckles.  Chuckles that faded into moans, straining to be closer, for more, for everything.

Sherlock shifted, and rolled to face John, his eyes soft in the dark flat.  He looked down at John, his eyes tracing a slow path over his familiar features.  "Stay with me.  You need to stay with me."  

This morning, it wasn't an imperious demand.  It was a sweet entreaty.  

John let out a deep breath.  "We can't do this, Sherlock.  Things have to end now, today."  

Closing his eyes tightly, Sherlock let out a shuddering breath.  He opened his eyes, blinking back the collecting moisture there.  "Yes, yes...," he seemed to slump a little with the admission.  "But I can't let you go, not knowing if you will be warm and safe.  Stay here, in this flat."

"No, no....I can't, Sherlock."  John was amazed at the generous offer, but knew it would be too much to stay here without Sherlock.  Even repainted and with the new bed, this place would remind John of him everywhere he looked. 

Sitting up, Sherlock ran his hands through his messy curls with impatient hands.  "Don't be ridiculous, John.  It's going to be empty anyways until the fall, when it cools enough for me to continue my work.  Save your money, stay here, and figure out your next steps."

"A transition house?"  John propped himself against the wall with some pillows, reconsidering the offer.  It would be nice to stay until he found his own place, pulling back here to regroup and get ready for his next steps.  Maybe it would be alright for a few days.  

Sherlock grinned, encouraging.  "Yes, exactly.  Donovan can bring over your clothes, and Mrs. Hudson can make sure you have enough food."

John shook his head.  "No, Sherlock.  That's a kind offer, but I'll only agree to stay here a few days if we make it a clean break.  I can't see anyone from the house after today."

Looking frustrated at John's stubbornness, Sherlock flopped onto his back.  "Stupid git.  This is so unnecessary."

Leaning over the man, John felt his heart give a hard, painful squeeze.  "Don't you see, Sherlock?  I care about you all so much.  It's going to hurt saying goodbye to everyone once.  I couldn't bear it if I had to do it over and over again."

Sherlock drew him down into a kiss.  "I care about you too, John.  More than I ever expected to."  He looked a little lost.  "I still want you, want to be with you, even after all this time we've spent together."

It said a lot about Sherlock's past relationships, that he was surprised to still be interested in John after a few months.  Had he been the one to end things in the past with his lovers, growing tired of their company once the passion had faded?  John's possessive side gloated at this admission, knowing Sherlock seemed interested in him longer than he had been in others.  

He pushed the feelings down, giving Sherlock a few last kisses.  Letting him know without words how much he cared for this man.  When he pulled away, they were both turning to wipe a quick finger near their eyes.  

After dressing in silence, they walked slowly back to the house.  John packed up his suitcase, wiping away the frequent tears trickling down his face.  It was worse when he packed the books he had bought with Sherlock, and when he saw the watercolour tucked inside one.  Sherlock, painted with a loving eye, capturing his good looks and intelligence.  It was a precious reminder of his dear friends.  

Mrs. Hudson and Donovan's goodbyes were teary, Donovan struggling to still appear masculine as she blew her nose.  Even Billy seemed a little choked up.  Sherlock looked cool and reserved, but John knew it was a thin facade, a brave face in front of his staff.  They shook hands, and with a final nod to everyone, John left 221B Baker Street for good.

 ---

-A/N: Oops.... I originally posted this & the next chapter as one huge one, but edited it into 2 parts (after leaving the longer version up for 10 minutes). I'll post the next chapter tomorrow likely. Thanks for reading so far. :)

-Drinking Port: I took Mycroft's comment, and Sherlock downing a glass upon seeing John from My Fair Lasy. 

-Almack's vouchers: The Lady Patronesses of Almack's issued a voucher each Season to those they deemed worthly for ten guineas (about $1,000 now). They excluded the _nouveau riche,_ and only allowed in the high society people with what they deemed good behaviour and breeding. 

-Extra characters: I blatantly stole names from the various Jane Austen novels and mixed them up. 

-Lord Nelson: He died a hero in Battle of Trafalgar (1805), after serving as an Admiral in the British Royal Navy. His inspirational leadership led to many decisive victories in the Napoleonic Wars, and there are many tributes to him, including Nelson's column in Trafalgar Square. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About 20 people have already read this chapter, as it was originally part of Chapter 15 for about 20 minutes. I realized it was a bit too long, so chopped the chapters in two.

The next days dragged.  John barely ate, barely got out of bed.  Hugging Sherlock's pillow and crying into it, giving into his feelings and allowing himself some time to grieve his loss.  The third day, he washed and put on his stakeout clothes, knowing the simple outfit fit in best with the neighborhood.

Lestrade's dark eyes warmed in recognition when John entered the office.  "Mr. Watson."  They shook hands, and John took a seat beside Lestrade's desk.

"I'm interested in working here, Constable.  I think a clerk position would fit my skills and abilities the best."  John said, swallowing down his nerves.  

Lestrade cocked his head slightly to the side, reviewing John critically and probably seeing all his secrets.  Did he suspect that he had an intimate relationship with Sherlock?

The constable made a note on some paper.  "Not as a night watchman or more thief taking work?  It pays better."

Shaking his head, John sat forward in his chair.  "Yes, but I have an army injury that makes it hard to do those.  I'm good at reading, and with numbers.  I really want a regular job with regular hours."

It was hard to stay still, waiting as Lestrade considered his request.  This was even more nerve wracking than asking society darling, Charlotte Bingley, to dance.  This meant more to him.

Finally, Lestrade gave a decisive nod.  "You have good timing, John.  One of my clerks is moving to America at the end of August.  You can start then.  Since it's a new role, we will give you a month to see if you suit."

Jumping up, John barely restrained himself from hugging Lestrade in elation.  He settled for shaking his hand too long, and smiling too widely.  "That's great, Constable Lestrade!  I won't let you down."

Chuckling, Lestrade pulled his hand back and led John towards the exit.  "Call me Lestrade.  No need for formalities now that you are part of our staff.  See you on September 1st."

Outside the office building, John wanted to jump around, dance and shout.  He had done it.  His plan had worked!  This was the start of everything.  

Immediately, he thought of who he could share the great news with, and his mood deflated a little.  His first impulse was to go to Baker Street.  They would be ecstatic, likely toast him with champagne and a special meal.  Sherlock's green eyes would glow with pride and happiness, and John would have a hard time not pushing him against a wall to kiss senseless.  He could imagine grabbing his hand to take him upstairs, celebrating in bed all night.  

He sighed.  It was impossible.  Molly?  She would be happy for him, but certainly tell Sherlock right away, and it would lead to the same mess.  

Back at the flat, he looked around, feeling lost.  He was in limbo here, waiting for his new life to begin, missing his old one.  He had the job, now he just needed to find a place to live.  Maybe there was a nice boarding house near Bow Street, somewhere he could get healthy home cooked meals and have others to share them with.  

His eyes fell to his open suitcase, still full of most of his meager possessions.  Mike's latest letter was on top.

Sitting down in the bed, John reread it.  Mike was settling in well to his factory job, complaining a little about the long hours and bad conditions, but overall, John could tell he was happier.  He had steady work, a good place to live, and family around him.  

John had no family left.  His father had died when he was fourteen, and his mother when he was in the army a year.  His sister had kept in touch sporadically, but years later he heard that she had become a drunk, like their father.  She had died young, the true cause not really clear.  

Mike was the closest thing John had to family now.  They had been in the army together right from the start, and John was proud his friend had been promoted to Lieutenant.  

John found writing materials, getting ready to tell Mike his good news, but stopped before the ink marked the paper.  An idea sparked inside him, and grew in intensity along with his excitement.  

He had £100, a job that didn't start for weeks and no commitments before then except finding a place to move to.  When else would he get a chance to visit?  It would be nice to get out of London, especially in August, see his friend and tell him the big news in person.  

The next day, he booked a ticket to Manchester, leaving early the next morning.  Indulging himself a little, he went to a good restaurant and had a big supper.  The stagecoach takes two days, and food in the resting stations along the way could be of dubious quality sometimes.  He chuckled to himself as he finished off his bottle of wine, thinking of how the months of Baker Street had spoiled him for cheaper foods.  

It began to rain hard as he made his way home, jogging to avoid getting soaked.  It didn't help, and he laughed as he started the fire and stripped out of his wet clothes.  

There was a couple hard knocks on the door, and John was surprised.  Who would be bugging him this late in the day?  In this weather?

Yanking a blanket over his bare skin, John almost tripped on it as he went to the door.  With a tipsy giggle, he flung the door open.  "What do you want?"

"You.  Just you."  The darkness outside hid his visitor's face, but John would know that voice anywhere.   

Without thinking, he pulled Sherlock into the flat and slammed the door shut, pushing him against it as he crowded close.  The taller man was soaked, dripping wet, but John didn't care, just digging his hands into his wet curls as they kissed hard.  

"Missed you, missed this..." John groaned, pushing his hands under wet clothes to greedily lay claim to bare skin, his teeth biting into Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock pushed off his soaked coat and tackled John, landing on the floor with his blanket.  Cold, wet clothes rubbed over his warm, bare skin, making him shiver with the contrast, even as he was burning up inside.  

Impatient fingers worked Sherlock's buttons free, pushing at his clothes until he was stroking Sherlock, hard and fast, gasping as he did the same to John.  Their eyes met and held, watching as they pushed each other closer and closer to the edge, lips hardly touching as they panted.  It was greedy, desperate, delicious.  John couldn't hold back, arching against Sherlock as he cried out his name.  He clutched him, when he felt his lover shuddering, pulling him down to wrap arms and legs around him tightly.  

When they finally got up, Sherlock finished undressing, draping his clothes near the fire to dry.  John made them tea, toweling their hair dry, and they huddled together under the blankets with their warm beverages.  

"It's not working, John.  I can't be without you."  Sherlock finally said softly.  "I knocked on your door and when you weren't home, I hid across the way.  Sat there for hours, wondering where you were, who you were with."

John's blue eyes widened.  "You staked me out?"

Sherlock nodded.  "I even sat there, in the rain, like some lovesick fool."  He looked miserable, and John ran a hand up and down his back, trying to comfort him.  

Looking closer, he could see Sherlock looked pretty rough.  Had he been eating or sleeping since John moved out?  His heart went out to him, just wanted to cuddle him close and tell him everything was going to be alright.

Instead he sighed.  "I know this is hard, Sherlock, but you have to move on.  We can't be together long term."

"Stay here then.  I'll visit you a few nights a week, when it's dark.  No one will see me."

"Secrets never stay secret."  John couldn't give in, no matter how much he wanted to.

Sherlock was quiet for a few minutes, and John wondered if he fell asleep. But a quick glance showed he was thinking hard, turning the problem over in his great mind. 

He put aside his empty mug and steepled his fingers under his chin. "John, remember when we were discussing Galileo?"

Puzzled why Sherlock was bringing up the astronomer now, John nodded.

"You were outraged that the church brought him before the Inquisition, and labeled him a heretic for the idea that the earth moves around the sun." Sherlock said calmly.

John could remember, reading a book about the history of science, and discussing it with Sherlock in the first weeks of being at his house. "He lived the last nine years of his life under house arrest, and not allowed to publish any more of his work."

"He never recanted, and one of his best works was written during that period." Sherlock's eyes watched John carefully. 

Nodding, John waited, knowing Sherlock was trying to make a point. 

"Every time there are people rioting for change, wanting to reform voting rights, that sort of thing, you support them." 

John agreed. "Well, what other way do they have to get their point across to the government? They aren't allowed to vote."

Moving to sit cross-legged in the bed, facing John, Sherlock took his hand, rubbing his thumb against the back of it. "You like people who stand up to authority for what they think is right. You admire them."

"Yes. They could have terrible consequences for their actions, like being executed, transported or imprisoned. It's incredibly brave." John felt inspired by their actions, and wanted to do more to help their cause.

Sherlock leaned in to give John a long, soft kiss. By the end of it, he was wanting to continue, pressing closer to the taller man. 

Pulling back, Sherlock's eyes lifted to meet John's. "Do you really think what we do together is wrong?"

John understood what Sherlock was getting at, and shook his head. Right from the first kiss, it had felt so right, so natural. The feelings he had for Sherlock were just as real as any he had had in the past for women. Stronger.

"You say we can't be together because it's illegal. We could be caught and face horrible punishments." Sherlock went on. 

John swallowed hard. "Sodomites are treated so badly. They are hated by society and the church. The Bible even says it is a sin."

"The Bible also says we should stone people to death who work on the Sabbath or wear clothes made of mixed materials. Slavery is accepted in the bible, yet you support the abolitionists." Sherlock argued back. "Look, does it really hurt anyone if we lived together?"

John thought about it. "Well, we wouldn't be following the 'be fruitful and multiply' edict, would we?" 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Do you really think the world needs more children? Things are overcrowded as they are."

Although he understood Sherlock's arguments, it still didn't change the pit of dread, of unease, that the idea of staying with Sherlock arose. Their short term happiness would be spoiled by the fear of future prosecution. 

Sherlock tipped John's face up to his for soft kisses. "You need to follow your heart, do what's right, even if it's against the rules sometimes."

John chuckled. "So, now you are an activist, pushing for change in society?"

"I'm a spoiled brat." Sherlock admitted with a small smile. "The only thing I ever wanted and couldn't have was you."

The image of Sherlock joining a protest rally made John chuckle. "So, you are going to write petitions, pressure the government to change unjust laws?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You rubbed off on me, apparently."

John laughed, looking down at Sherlock's rumpled clothes, remembering what they had done earlier. 

A smiling Sherlock tackled John, pushing him back on the bed. His kisses were intense, passionate. Reminding John of how good things had been between them in the weeks before Almack's. He stripped him bare, taking his time, making love to him slowly. 

They cuddled together afterwards, regaining their breath. Sherlock kissed his temple. "Move back home, John. Be with me."

John kissed Sherlock in return, making no promises he couldn't keep.

\---

The next morning, John woke up early and pulled free of Sherlock's embrace. He packed quickly, silently, and wrote out a short note, leaving it on the table with the key.

Before he left, he stared down at Sherlock sleeping on the bed. Memorizing the way he was tangled with the sheets, the way his messy curls fell across the pillow. His face looked younger in sleep, untroubled by the worries of the day. John wanted to always remember Sherlock like this. 

He dared to lay a gentle kiss against Sherlock's temple, and left the flat with his suitcase. Ready to escape to Manchester.

\---

-A/N: One more chapter! (I think). Thanks for reading so far. :)

-Stagecoaches: Railways weren't common until the 1850's, so travelling between cities before then was done by coaches drawn by a team of four horses. They ran on regular routes, at regular times. The journey was broken up into stages, where the horses were exchanged for fresh ones, and giving the customers a chance to use the privy, eat and stretch their legs. Manchester is 200 miles (320 km) from London, and would take about 2 whole days to travel. 

-August in London: Cesspits and the poor state of sewers lead to London being almost unliveable during the hottest parts of the year. Most of high society retreated to their country estates by August. Sewage and industrial effluent being pumped into the river Thames eventually resulted in the 'Big Stink' during the particularly hot summer of 1858. After this, sewer systems were redesigned to handle London's needs better. 

-Galileo Galilee (1564-1642): Wikipedia: "He has been called the 'father of observational astronomy', the 'father of modern physics', the 'father of scientific method', and the 'father of science'." He discovered four of Jupiter's largest moons, gave telescopic confirmation the phases of Venus and researched sunspots.  
In 1616, he was called to the Roman Inquisition for writings about the "foolish and absurd" belief that the Earth rotated around the Sun (heliocentrism). Nicholas Copernicus had published this theory in 1543, although the church considered it heresy. The Bible states in more than one scripture that the Earth does not move (geocentrism). He was ordered "to abandon completely... the opinion that the sun stands still at the center of the world and the earth moves, and henceforth not to hold, teach, or defend it in any way whatever, either orally or in writing." He was careful after that, but a book he published in 1632 pissed the Pope off and he was brought before the Inquisition again. He was condemned with 'vehement suspicion of heresy' and placed under house arrest for the last nine years of his life.  
The Church reassessed its views over time, and stopped listing his books on the 'Index of Prohibited Books' by 1758. His body was reburied in a better spot in 1737 with a special monument, and three fingers and a tooth were removed from his body at this time. Currently, his middle finger is being displayed in Museo Galileo in Florence. 

-Abolitionists: In the late 1700's, Quakers in England and American questioned the morality of slavery, and people wishing to end the slave trade started a movement to pressure governments to abolish it. Slavery was prohibited in England in 1772, but not until 1833 for the rest of the British Empire. 


	17. Chapter 17

John ate another bite of his plum tart, savoring the delicious blend of the sweet fruit and creamy custard. He may have let out a little sound of appreciation even.

Kitty chuckled at his expression as she filled their mugs with tea. "John, there's plenty more if you want."

Shaking his head, he looked back into her blue eyes that were so similar to her brother's. "I'm eating you out of house and home already." He patted his stomach, wondering if he had gained weight since coming up to Manchester from Kitty's good simple meals. Although not as fancy as Mrs. Hudson's, they reminded John of meals his mother made when he was young. 

She laughed. "You hardly ate much the first week you were here, so I guess you are making up for it now." 

John nodded in agreement. After getting off the stagecoach, he was exhausted and seemed to sleep a lot when he first arrived at Mike's. It was partly due to missing Sherlock as well, but he let his hosts think he was a little ill, just needing some quiet time on his own. Ever since he had spent more time out of bed, Kitty had fussed over him and he enjoyed the attention from the attractive woman.

Mike returned from using the privy and settled back onto his chair, tucking into his dessert. "John, I hope you visit us often. It makes Kitty cook up her best recipes." He shot a teasing glance at his younger sister, and she blushed slightly, looking down. 

Glancing quickly at Kitty, John noticed her looking his way again, and gave her a small smile before chatting on with Mike. Her interest in him had been getting more apparent, and he found it flattering. She was a widow about ten years younger than him, with slim curves and an easy laugh. 

After the meal, Mike invited him outside. It was a warm, summer night, and they sat in companionable silence on a bench. 

Manchester was a large city like London, but its factories dominated the area. The brick buildings had tall chimneys; billowing out fumes from the steam engines inside. Many people had flocked to the northern city for work, resulting in overcrowding and poor conditions. 

"John, I know you have a job starting soon in London, but have you thought of staying here instead?" Mike asked, looking closely at his friend. "I can probably put in a good word at the factory."

Giving a small nod in acknowledgement, John gazed out at the city as he pictured what his life could be like here. There was plenty of work, but twelve-hour shifts were common and he doubted his shoulder could handle the strain. "Thanks, Mike, but I think the job in London is a better fit for me."

Mike nudged his shoulder. "But Kitty isn't in London, is she?" 

It was the first time he'd said anything so direct about it. John chuckled in response. A few months ago, he would have jumped at a chance to be with such a lovely woman. But somehow now, something was holding him back.

Mike didn't miss the expressions flitting across his friend's face. "Oh...your heart really isn't free to give, is it?" His words were soft, and they made tears prickle in John's eyes. 

He blinked fast, trying to hold them back. "It's foolish, I know. I'll be better in time."

Wrapping an arm around John's shoulders, Mike gave him a squeeze. "Well, maybe you can come visit us later." It was pretty obvious he had John in mind to be his brother-in-law, and the idea of belonging to this family certainly had some appeal. 

"I'd like that, Mike." John gave his friend a quick hug, before letting go. "I should probably get back to London. I don't want to give Kitty ideas..."

Shaking his head, Mike stood up to face John. "I'll talk to her, don't worry. And you can't leave yet. Henry Hunt is speaking here on Monday! People from all over the area are coming to hear him. You can't miss that."

John had heard a little about the meeting, although it kept getting delayed. "Are the authorities going to allow such a large gathering?" 

"The organizers are working all that out. It will be a peaceful gathering, with no weapons allowed." Mike calmed John's worries, and pretty soon they both headed back inside. 

\---

Molly was flipping through the newspaper, making shocked noises, and Sherlock looked up from his book. "What are you on about, over there?"

She looked up from the articles, dabbing her handkerchief against her cheek. "More horrible details are coming out about Manchester. Listen to this...an Oldham cloth worker is comparing St. Peter's Fields to the Battle of Waterloo, saying "At Waterloo, there was man to man, but there it was downright murder.""

"Stupid fools for letting such a huge crowd gather like that. Of course the magistrates feared the radicals. They gathered in that field other times, and seemed on the verge of an uprising." Sherlock said calmly, flipping to a new page. Unrest in Manchester was hardly anything new.

"Hundreds are hurt, Sherlock..." Molly’s voice broke as she said his name. 

Getting up, Sherlock went to stand behind Molly, stroking her back to comfort her as she wiped up her tears. The story of the violence in Manchester had been shocking, but he had never seen her reacting like this to a newspaper story. 

She looked up at Sherlock, her eyes red from her tears. "I just wish John would send word that he is alright. I won't sleep a full night until then, worrying about him."

"John?" Sherlock's hand stopped on her shoulder, tightening to make her turn around to face him. "What's this about John?"

Molly's eyes widened. "Surely you know he has been in Manchester, visiting his old army friend. And he would have been interested in hearing Henry Hunt speak..."

The world seemed to tilt for a few seconds, and Sherlock grasped the table to stabilize himself before sinking onto the chair beside her. "Tell me everything you know, Molly."

 _John. Manchester. Massacre. Danger._ His mind was whirling a hundred directions, but he forced himself to focus on Molly's words.

Ten minutes later he was hollering for his staff to prepare his horse and a suitcase as he ran up the stairs to change into his riding clothes. 

\---

Mike pulled his robe closed as he carried his lamp down the dark hallway. He waved for Kitty to go back into her room as he went to the front door. 

The pounding was hard and constant, and Mike feared what he would face when he opened the door. No one came at this hour of the night with good news. 

The door opened to a tall man Mike didn't recognize. He was dressed in the finest riding clothes Mike had ever seen, although they were muddy and very creased from long wear. The man had very pale skin, dark curly hair, and looked on the verge of collapsing due to exhaustion. 

"John..." the man got out, his eyes holding Mike's with almost crazed intensity. "John Watson. Is he here?" 

Stepping back, Mike waved the man in immediately. "Yes, Mr. Holmes, but I'm afraid he's in a bad way." There was no doubt who this man could be. 

The tall man's face seemed to pale even further, his lips pressing into a tight line. "Take me to him." 

Mike led Sherlock down the hallway, pausing outside a closed door. Taking a deep breath, he opened it. 

John was lying on the bed, the bandages around his head obscuring half of his face. The remaining part was bruised and scraped, making him almost unidentifiable.

The tall man gasped, but clearly recognized John despite his injuries. He rushed to the bed, grabbing the lamp from Mike and holding it to look over John in the dark room. "What happened?"

"We got separated in the crowds, everyone pressed in so close that hat brims were touching. When the attack came, everyone was scrambling to get away, even though there was nowhere to run." Mike said softly, watching the way Sherlock was looking John over so thoroughly, his hand shaking as he pulled the sheet downwards to see the bruises on John's chest. 

Kitty brought in another lamp, setting it on the bedside table to brighten the room more. "He was unconscious when we found him, hours later. Luckily, most of the blood on him wasn't his. He only has a few minor cuts, no slashes from a sabre."

Sinking down onto a stool beside the bed, Sherlock seemed to be shaking, and Mike rubbed a hand over his shoulder. 

"He must have hit his head and maybe was trampled by the crowd in the mayhem." Kitty pulled the sheet back over John, even though the room was warm. "He hasn't woken up yet to tell us what happened."

Sherlock shook his head, making a groaning noise. He looked at Mike and Kitty in turn, his eyes showing his pain. "What did the doctor say?"

Mike wrung his hands. "He hasn't been by. There are others with even more serious injuries taking all their attention."

With a muttered swear, Sherlock jumped up, tearing at the buttons of his coat. "Then I will examine him. I have some medical knowledge." 

Nodding, Mike and Kitty pulled back the sheet, showing John was only wearing loose drawers. His body was covered in scrapes and bruises. 

"I washed him and dressed the worst wounds, mostly on his head." Kitty said, working on the bandages near his temple. 

Sherlock was silent as he worked on John, his hands shaking as he felt along his limbs for broken bones, probing gently at the swollen areas. There was a bad cut near his left ear, in his hair, and Sherlock's long fingers carefully exposed the wound. The injuries were well cleaned and there was no sign of infection. He worked with Kitty to tie a clean bandage back over it.

"I don't think he has any broken bones, and you have treated his wounds well. I don't think he was trampled, or we would see signs of swelling on his torso. He's breathing easily and his pulse is stable." Sherlock sighed, sinking back onto the stool. "He must be in this coma from having his head knocked, as you said."

Kitty nodded, coming to stand beside Sherlock. They both looked down at John, unnaturally still on the bed, concern and caring in their eyes. Mike saw the similarity in their expressions, nodding to himself. Knowing the truth. 

"Come, Mr. Holmes. You must be exhausted from your ride up from London. We will find you a place to rest." Kitty placed a hand on Sherlock's arm, pulling him away from the bed.

Shaking his head, he wearily sunk down to the stool. "I'll stay with John." He gave them an exhausted look, taking in the siblings. "Call me Sherlock." He held out his hand to Mike.

Mike shook it, giving Sherlock their first names, and pulled Kitty out of the room. 

"Bring him some tea and toast. We'll try to get him to rest in a couple hours." Mike said softly to Kitty.

\---

Sherlock's world had narrowed down to just the man lying still on the bed. Everything else had faded away, a pale dull environment he dealt with woodenly, hardly conscious of what he was doing or saying. 

It had been like that since Molly’s words had said sunk into his brain, translating to _John, Danger, Go_. Just the basic message occupying all his thoughts and pushing him to ride through the night, only stopping every couple hours to change to a fresh horse. 

He hadn't eaten or slept since he left London, feeling like a hollow shell, echoing with whispers of the past. Vaguely, he interacted with Mike and Kitty, feeling numb, resisting their well-intentioned offers for food and a bed. His place was with John now. He wouldn't leave his side again.

Hours or days passed, and he was peripherally aware of the siblings coming and going, checking on John and him. Kitty got him to change into a night shirt and robe of Mike's so she could wash his dirty clothes, the over large clothing making her tut in displeasure and sweeten his tea with more sugar. He survived in tea and toast, not touching the other foods she brought. 

Mike shook him, pulling him back from his cramped position of sitting on the stool and leaning forward to rest his head on the bed. "Sherlock, this is bad for you. Come sleep in a proper bed for an hour or two. I insist."

Blinking sleepily, Sherlock shook his head. He could be stubborn, unmovable. 

With a deep sigh, Mike glanced at John's bed. "Then help me shift John over so you can lie beside him."

The surprising offer had Sherlock scrambling to comply, and he let out a relieved breath as he eased onto the bed. Although tall, he was thin, and tucked easily beside John in the single bed. 

Shaking his head, Mike left the room. 

Kitty gave him a concerned look. "Will he come out?" 

"No, I could only get him to rest by lying down beside John."

"Is that good for John?" Kitty was surprised, her eyes wide. 

Mike nodded. "I spoke with John before I left London. He and Sherlock are close friends, more than friends. Having Sherlock near can only help." Plus he didn't know any way to get the tall berk to leave.

\---

Sherlock nuzzled into the warm body, still feeling groggy and disoriented. The person nearby felt familiar, but something was wrong.

Opening his eyes, he could see it was dawn, the soft sunlight barely illuminating the sky. He had probably only slept three or four hours. Hardly enough to catch up on two missed nights. No wonder his mind still felt fuzzy.

He looked over at John and reality crashed back down on him. The bandages, John being in a coma. It was Sunday morning now, still early. The attack had happened Monday afternoon. He had been in the coma five whole days now. 

Leaning in closer, he kissed along John's cheek. "John, John....it's safe now. I'm here. Mike and Kitty are here. Come back to us..."

John's body was warm, his breathing normal, but there was no response. So many times in July, Sherlock had snuck into John's bed in the mornings, loving it when he was still asleep and he could curl around his sleeping body, pretending to himself they had slept that way together all night. John invariably shifted in his sleep, adjusting to Sherlock naturally, sometimes letting out a sleepy word or hum of contentment. It always sent a pang to Sherlock's heart when he did that, that even mostly asleep, his instinct was that Sherlock in his bed was normal, wanted. 

But there was no response to Sherlock now. It showed how deep John was submerged, not responding to his environment at all. Sherlock had seen his injuries and they did not look that bad. John, in this coma, was practically like a warm corpse. 

Gathering John into his arms, Sherlock hugged him as tightly as he could. He buried his face against John's neck, feeling the warm skin and slight stubble. He smelled like John, felt like John, but the essence of who he truly was wasn't there. 

"John, I don't know if you are in a really deep sleep, or if your soul has left your body, or however people try to explain this. Wherever you are, please, please hear me." Sherlock said softly, closing his eyes tight and feeling tears streaming down his face, dampening the cloth of John's nightshirt. "I need you. I can't live without you. Maybe I didn't make it clear enough to you before."

Lifting his head, he looked down at the still man, willing him to open his eyes, and gaze back at Sherlock again. "We will go wherever we need to go so you will feel safe; to America, to Australia, to India. We can change our names and live anyway you want. Sleep under the stars or cuddled up under a simple blanket tent. I don't need anything but you, John. Just you."

Sherlock sighed, turning his head to rest it against John's chest. "You said you were given a second chance at life when you chose to join the army. Well, maybe fate stepped in again on Monday. Instead of being killed in the massacre, you were put into this coma. Given time for me to come and beg for you to give me a chance. Give us a chance. Please, please John."

The words were spoken softly, just for John's ears, with Sherlock wiping away his tears as he kept begging John to wake up.

He fell back asleep, emotionally drained, curled around John on that small single bed, holding his hand in his. 

\---

John felt like he couldn't breathe. A heavy weight was on his chest, and it was completely dark. He could hardly move. 

_You are in a coffin. In a coffin. Being buried alive. Do Something!_

As his mind repeated the words, over and over in a jumble, he willed himself to move. To lift his arms, pound on the casket, make some noise. 

_This couldn't happen. It couldn't. MOVE!_

Finally, the messages from his waking brain spread down into his body, and his chest heaved as he took a big gulp of air. 

The weight lifted, his chest feeling lighter, and he breathed easier. He lifted a hand, the motion tiny compared to what he was try to do. 

_MOVE! NOW! Before it's too late!_

His hand twitched again, and he felt exhausted at the futile motion.

But it must have been enough, as strong arms pulled him up, and his cold, stiff body was being held against a warm one. 

He was dizzy and relieved, relaxing into the safety of those arms, that low comforting voice in his ear. 

He was here. He would keep John safe.

John drifted into a light sleep, a tiny smile on his lips.

\---

John woke feeling slightly disorientated. The room was dark, except the glow from the banked coals in the fireplace. He was in a soft bed, with clean sheets and thick blankets cocooning him in warmth. He felt completely comfortable. Warm and well rested. 

He gradually became aware of the sounds of gentle breathing coming from nearby, and turned onto his side to face the sleeping man sharing the bed. Sherlock looked very young in the dim light, his face relaxed and peaceful, and his curly hair messy against the pillow. 

Those light green eyes opened, and instantly warmed on seeing John so close. "I will never tire of waking up to you in my bed, John." He leaned closer, kissing him lightly, a gentle touching of their lips.

John looked down at Sherlock's mouth when he moved back, his mind still a little fuzzy. "How many times have I slept here?"

Sherlock gave a little grin as he counted in his head. "Well, the first two nights you were in the house until we bought you a bed, and seven nights since we got back from Manchester." 

"So, nine nights in total then?" Giving a small nod, John agreed with the numbers. "When does it officially change from being 'your' bed to being 'our' bed?" He tried to keep a straight face, but one corner of his lips tightened a little.

Sherlock's eyes gleamed with amusement. "I'll have to consult the appropriate governing body about that. I think The Department of Nocturnal Chattel is still in charge of that."

John heaved a big sigh. "I suppose it will involve getting a twenty page form signed and notarized, won't it?"

"In triplicate, of course." Sherlock said gravely. He was far better as controlling his expressions, although his eyes gave him away.

Sitting up, John stretched. "Triplicate! It's hardly worth the bother of all that. Perhaps I should move back to my perfectly adequate bed across the hall. If you want to complete the paperwork, I may entertain the notion of letting you co-own that bed."

Sherlock's big hands pulled John back down. "Or we could be rebels, defy the government, and simply call both of them 'our' beds. Without doing a scrap of paperwork."

"Wouldn't that be confusing, owning two beds jointly? However would we tell them apart?" John couldn't resist taking Sherlock's hand and stroking along the long fingers.

Sherlock broke into a grin, which John considered a small victory. "We could design new titles, such as 'The East Bed' and 'The West Bed'. Flip a coin to determine which we shall honor with our presence each night."

John paused, looking at Sherlock a bit closer. "Perhaps we should keep them as separate beds, Sherlock. I start work on Monday, and I don't want to disturb you when I get up. And when you start your research again, you won't be coming home until so late." Lestrade had been willing to delay John’s start date a couple weeks when he heard he had been injured in Manchester.

Sherlock leaned in, pushing John flat on his back to deliver a deep, hard kiss. John instantly responded to it, hugging Sherlock close and digging his hands into his hair to extend the kiss. 

John gave him a bemused look when Sherlock pulled back. "Please tell me what I said to get kissed like that! You been handling me with kid gloves since Manchester."

Sherlock had been wonderful all during John's recovery, hardly leaving his side at all. After a few days in Manchester, he had arranged for a private coach to drive them slowly back to London, not wanting John to be jostled too much. Since being back at Sherlock's, he had been spoiled by Mrs. Hudson, Donovan, Billy and Molly as well. 

Looking very pleased, Sherlock squeezed John's hand. "You called this 'home', and spoke as if you are staying long term." 

John stilled, looking into Sherlock's sage green eyes, trying to read them. "Do you still feel so unsure about me?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, his gaze steady on John's. "I didn't want to pressure you while you were recovering, John. You left before. I don't know if you planned to again."

Scrunching his eyes up a little, John searched his memory. Since the injury, he had a little memory loss of the day, and it was patchy in the days before and afterwards. Some memories were coming back. "I'm still a little confused about things, Sherlock. But didn't you promise to live in a blanket tent with me in India?"

"You remember that? You heard that?" Sherlock was incredulous. "You were in a deep coma, and I was promising you everything, the moon and all the stars, if you would just wake up."

John chuckled. "Oh, so you didn't mean any of it?"

Sherlock gathered him close. "I just want you to be happy, John. I also want to be with you, any way you will take me. In a blanket tent in India, in the wilds of America, anywhere." 

"I want to be with you too, Sherlock. But I'm still scared. Is there anywhere we will be truly safe?" John was blatantly honest.

"I don't think they execute sodomites in America, that's why Lord Courtney fled there." Sherlock said softly. "I'm willing to go there, if you want."

John looked at him levelly. "You would pack up your whole life and move to another country, just to be with me?"

Scoffing, Sherlock rolled out of the bed, pacing the room. He was only wearing his drawers, the light material covering from his waist to knees, and his hair was still a mess. 

John found him beautiful. He sat up, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Sherlock. Waiting for him to respond to the question. Half afraid that he would change his mind, come to his senses.

Instead, Sherlock walked right to him, and dropped to his knees before John, tilting his head downwards. 

Shocked, John shifted uncomfortably, and reached forward with both hands to cup Sherlock's jaw, tilting his face up. Searching his eyes for answers. 

"John, when you moved to the flat, my life felt empty and lonely. I could hardly eat or sleep. I missed you terribly. A man I had only known for three months had become incredibly important to me." Sherlock said, his eyes unflinching in his brutal honesty.

"I couldn't stay away. I went to you, begged you, but you still left the next day." Sherlock looked down briefly. "I knew you cared for me, but it wasn't enough to outweigh your fears. It hurt, but I understood."

He swallowed hard. "But when Molly said you were in Manchester and there was a high likelihood you were at that damn massacre, I couldn't do anything but go to you. I had to know, had to get you safe if I could. Nothing in the world mattered more to me than that."

"You were with your friends, but came so close to slipping away forever, John." Sherlock leaned forward, his voice cracking as he said his name, burying his face in John's lap. 

John was stunned by the display of raw emotion, speechless, and just stroked a hand through Sherlock's hair, along his bareback. 

Sherlock collected himself, leaning back to face John again. "For days I held you, promising you everything if you would come back. I thought my heart might burst when you finally stirred against me."

"You have turned my life upside down, inside out, and I think it's wonderful." Sherlock gave a tight smile. "Do you remember when I mentioned the Ancient Greeks' four forms of love?”

John's heart pounded even harder. "Yes, I remember."

"I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you." Sherlock said, his eyes clear and sure. "In every way, deeply and completely. You are my everything."

"Oh..." John could only gasp, his head reeling. 

Sherlock nodded, seeing how affected John was by his words. "It's a lot to take in, but I want you to know I mean it when I said would do anything, anything, to make you happy, to make you feel safe. I want to be with you, but if you think you will be happier or safer apart from me, I will follow your wishes." 

"So, you would really move to India with me?" John had thought it had been a joke, or something said in passing.

Sherlock gave a small shrug. "I am risking execution just living here with you. You are worth it."

John pulled Sherlock up onto the bed, kissing him hard, clutching him closer. He rolled him onto his back, looking down at his dear face. 

"Sherlock, I have faced death many times in my life, in illness, the courts, and the battlefield. In Manchester, I was certain my time had come. I can't remember much, but as I passed out, covered in blood, I was staring at a green silk banner embossed with the words 'Unity and Strength'." John said, his words rough with emotion. 

He sighed. "As I recovered the past week, trying to piece together everything, sleeping beside you, it struck me that I would only risk my life for one thing now. You. I am willing to risk execution to be with you. Maybe we will only have a day together or maybe we will have decades. I'm at peace with it, as long as we are together."

Sherlock's eyes glowed with happiness, and they kissed again. 

"So, you love me too?" Sherlock asked, resting his forehead against John's.

John chuckled, cupping a hand along his jaw. "You need to hear the words, don't you?" He rolled his eyes, playfully put out. 

Picking up Sherlock's hand, John closed his eyes and placed a reverent kiss in the center of his palm. " _Storge._ " He shifted upwards and placed another kiss on the center of his forehead. _"Philia."_ The next kiss was on his lips, sweet and firm, full of emotion. _"Eros."_

The last kiss was over his heart, and John lifted his eyes to look at Sherlock steadily. _"Agape."_

"You remembered all the words." Sherlock was truly touched, cupping John's head, stroking his hair. 

John grinned. "Well, when a man you love madly talks casually about the types of love, it isn't easy to forget. Plus I read all the books in your library about it the next few days."

"You knew back then?" Sherlock looked fascinated. 

"At the first dance lesson, when I was too jealous to watch you dancing with Madame or Monsieur Benoit."

"Oh, that's why you wanted lessons apart from me." Sherlock chuckled. "Mycroft had already asked if I was in love you, a few days before that."

"He did? Even before seeing me at Almack's?" It was John's turn to be fascinated.

Sherlock shrugged. "In your Greek research, did you come across the myth of Pygmalion? He thought I was like that with you."

John's expression showed he was familiar with the story. "It is strangely fitting. Mike said I was in the coma about a week. I was like a statue practically."

"I definitely kissed you and offered everything I had to have you back." Sherlock agreed fervently.

"Well, aren't you called a 'Resurrection Man'?" John joked.

Sherlock groaned. "That's for stealing corpses from graves, not bringing people back to life."

"You know, my memories are a little fuzzy, but I remember thinking I was in a coffin before I came out of the coma." 

"Buried alive?"

"Maybe." John shuddered. 

John rolled onto his back, propping up some pillows. "So, Mycroft suspects you love me, Molly too, from how you came rushing to my rescue."

"Also Mrs. Hudson, Donovan and Billy."

"Mike and Kitty. Mary, Richard, Janine?"

"They might suspect it. I trust them."

"Well, I suggest we try to live on as we have been. A couple within the house and with our friends. Friends when we are in public." John said, taking Sherlock's hands.

Sherlock nodded, feeling hopeful at the way this was going. "And we will watch for signs of danger. Maybe Mycroft can help there. He's more in touch with society than I am."

"Donovan and Mrs. Hudson can monitor the servant level gossip."

"And we will have emergency bags packed if we need a quick escape." 

"Such intrigue for a couple old men in love." John chuckled.

"Old! Speak for yourself! I'm 34."

"I'm almost 40. But I feel younger around you." John rolled on top of Sherlock, pinning him down for some long kisses, shifting to rock their hips together.

"Are you sure, John?"

"Fuck yes. I've been gasping for it for days now. Don't you dare put me off, saying I need more recovery time." John bit into his neck. 

Sherlock arched against him. "I meant about us, being together."

"I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you." John chuckled. "What more assurance do you want? I'd damn marry you if I could!"

"Wear my ring?"

John stopped. "Yes. Let's get rings and wear them on our middle fingers." 

"Subtle." Sherlock laughed and settled in to kiss his man until he was grinding back against him. 

Sherlock had been careful with John since Manchester, never letting the kisses intensify this much, even though being close made them both want more. 

Without words, they quickly stripped. Naked, Sherlock worshipped John, so thankful to have him back in his bed, his house, his life. Showing his appreciation with slow caresses until John was begging for more. 

\---

Sherlock's long arms were loosely over John, stroking his hands along his lower back. "Did I nurture your love for me, or did it occur naturally?" 

Thinking about it, John saw all the times he had resisted his feelings and pushed Sherlock away. The times Sherlock had stopped things as well. Despite all that, they had been undeniably drawn to each other, hardly able to be in the same room without touching. 

"It was as natural as breathing. I felt it was right and true from our first kiss. If it was something I needed to learn, wouldn't I have felt disgust initially at your touch?" John kissed Sherlock lightly, remembering that first kiss in the tent. _"Sapere aude."_

Sherlock nodded. "I was so attracted to you, I had to know if you felt the same. When you kissed me back, it was exciting and terrifying. It opened up a whole world of possibilities. I'd never felt like that with anyone before." 

"I've never felt like this with anyone else either, Sherlock. What we have is rare and special. We need to protect our love from those who don't understand it." 

Sherlock nodded. "We aren't alone. Many people love those that society doesn't approve of. We need to work to change the laws, to make it safer for everyone." 

John nodded, cuddling up with his man. They would make this work. Whatever it took.

Stretching, Sherlock slipped out of bed, and pulled on his robe. “Come on, let’s get some breakfast.” 

Admiring his man, John roused himself, pulling on his own robe, and running his hands through his hair to tidy it a little. 

Sherlock was bent down, searching for something on the floor. “John, where the devil are my slippers?” His voice was muffled from his position. 

John spotted the slippers on his side of the bed, and his aim was pretty good. One hit Sherlock on his ass, and other on his back, before he straightened with a howl. John just had time for a big grin before he dashed out of the bedroom and down the stairs. 

\---

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: Thanks so much for reading this historical Johnlock of mine. I’ve always wanted to learn more about the French Revolution, Napoleon and his effect on Europe, The Enlightenment, and England during the Regency period. I’ve read Jane Austen’s novels, and a lot of historical romances set in the Regency period, but they usually just focused on the privileged world of the ton. I wanted to dig a little deeper and see what the rest of society was up to during that period. Thanks for indulging me in this. 

-Peterloo Massacre: On August 16, 1819, the cavalry charged into a huge unarmed crowd that had gathered on St. Peter’s Field, in Manchester. Estimates of the crowd size vary from 60,000 to 120,000. They were there to hear well-known orator Henry Hunt speak on voting reform. Local magistrates sent in the cavalry to arrest Hunt and disperse the crowd. The cavalry charged into the crowd with sabres drawn, hacking their way through. Fifteen people died, and 400-700 were injured. The attack was given the name ‘Peterloo’, as a reference to the Battle of Waterloo that had occurred four years earlier. It was one of the first public meetings with journalists from distant, important newspapers present, and the story was published within a day or two all over England, outraging and shocking everyone. The government supported the cavalry’s actions, and passed laws to suppress radical meetings and publications. Henry Hunt and the other organizers served jail terms for sedition. 

The Reform Act was not passed until 1832, thirteen years later, allowing for better representation in Parliament. It was the first major voting reform in 400 years.

-Ancient Greek forms of love: _Storge_ is love, affection, especially for family. _Philia_ is affectionate regard, friendship between equals, or brotherly love. _Eros_ is intimate love or sexual love, passion. _Agape_ is the highest form of love, love of the soul. 

-Flipping the Bird: Sticking up your middle finger has apparently meant ‘Fuck You’ since Ancient Greek and Ancient Roman times. Wikipedia: In Latin, the middle finger was the _digitus impudicus,_ meaning the "shameless, indecent or offensive finger".

-“John, where the devil are my slippers?”: This is my nod towards the last line of ‘My Fair Lady’. Henry Higgins says ‘Eliza, where the devil are my slippers?” which she had thrown at him earlier during an argument. 

-Wikipedia: 99% of my research comes from Wikipedia, delving into other websites as needed for deeper info at times. A great one for word origins is Etymonline [ here for Fuck.](http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=fuck) You can see it's from the 1670s. 


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